Lilac and Ivory
by georgethomas1
Summary: Raising a teenager is hard work - especially for a pathologist and a consulting detective. Abigail Holmes and her best friend Agatha Watson have been playing up at school and Molly Hooper sentences them to a weekend's worth of cleaning. That is when they begin to uncover the truth and mysteries begin to unfold.
1. Chapter 1

"You got in trouble again, Abigail?" Molly Hooper sighed, "What did you do?" The girl stifled a yawn as if she was bored.

"I told the teacher it was impossible to melt a human body in hydrofluoric acid without polyethylene plastic." Sherlock had brought the paper closer to his face. He was laughing. His daughter was on the verge of expulsion and he was laughing. With a sigh, Molly stood up from her chair.

"Go to your room; we'll talk about this tomorrow." She had to deal with Sherlock first. Sometimes, it was like living with two teenagers instead of one. Once Abigail went upstairs, Molly approached her partner.

"Sherlock, you're really not helping with Abigail's behavioral problems..." Sherlock put down his paper, lay back on his couch and stared at the ceiling.

"Well, she's right. Without polyethylene... What are they teaching today?" Molly just shook her head. There was no point arguing with that man. He refused to back down and he was always right... Except for when it came to being human. Instead, Molly just told him with thin patience,

"We're going to see the principal about her tomorrow." Leaving on that note, Molly retreated to her bed. That was the only way she could get Sherlock to do anything; by not giving him a chance to argue. She worried for Abigail. Sure, she was like herself but she was more like Sherlock and despite how much she loved him, that prospect frightened her.

Pathology was, according to some, a very depressing job but not for Molly. It had its perks and leaving early, although a rarity, was one of them. She thought she would get to the school and deal with Abigail without Sherlock, against the initial notion that they were going to deal with it together.

Today, Mary Watson and her coordinated to find John and Sherlock a case so they didn't go off the rails. Mary did the persuading while Molly picked a case. Naturally, Molly picked a case that she knew Sherlock would be too intrigued to walk away from. She really did know how to manipulate him to her advantage but it was in a different way but then, everything with Sherlock Holmes was different.

As Molly stepped onto the street where she parked her car, she was almost blinded by the light. It had been a long time since she had finished at four in the afternoon. Climbing into her car, she freshened up her lipstick and then began to drive towards the school, where she told her obstinate teenager to wait.

London was always so busy with its buses and cabs and getting to the school was almost impossible. The operative word being almost. When Molly finally got there, she saw a familiar car. Mary was here. Something must have happened with Agatha too.

The principal's office made Molly feel a tad underdressed. It was a beige room with blue paintings and lovely green plants on either side of the door frame. As Molly approached a chair, Abigail came up the stairs and avoided her mother's eyes. Silently, Abigail took a seat beside her mother and let her brown hair out of its hair tie, draping a curtain so the two would be unable to make eye contact at all.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Agatha." Mary told her daughter sternly before shooting a sympathetic look towards Molly on the way out. Mary was usually a patient woman; she was friends with Sherlock for god's sake, but today, she seemed out of that precious patience. That meant one of two things; what Agatha did was completely idiotic or the principal was brilliant at playing things up. Inhaling deeply, Molly stood up and walked into see the principal with Abigail close behind.


	2. Chapter 2

"Are we going to start without Mr. Holmes?" The principal asked, looking up from his file at Molly.

"He's working late," Molly told him a little too quickly. Eyeing her suspiciously, the principal raised an eyebrow. "He's..." Molly thought she had better stop trying to talk before she said the wrong thing.

"Abigail, I've had complaints from a number of teachers that you are..." He searched through his file on his desk, "A nuisance," suddenly, the principal's phone beeped and he received a message, 'Wrong!' The principal ignored it and continued with his list, "A menace who undermines everyone else," Another beep. Molly buried her head in her hands. _Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing?_ Her exasperation at Sherlock's flair for the dramatic must have become evident because the man grew smug as he read the last thing. "One of the teachers said she doesn't find it appropriate for you to correct them. They are teaching the right material." One more message and he glared at Abigail. "Stop that," he hissed at her as the door handle twisted and the door opened.

"Conrad Downs," Molly had absolutely no idea where Sherlock came from or how he arrived but there he was; in his slacks and his heavy coat with the collar turned up and his blue scarf. The principal looked uncomfortable, almost intimidated by the man with the sharp features. "A father of two and a half it would seem judging by the bags under your eyes," Molly missed that the first time and just assumed it was to do with being a principal. "You get migraines," Sherlock looked towards a silver photo frame with a sheet of pills camouflaged with it. "You've been to the doctor recently because they are antibiotics not aspirin. These aren't just any migraines, are they?" Sherlock looked at him in the eyes directly, "A brain tumour; how unfortunate." Downs didn't move or speak. "Treatment must cost a lot, these days, wouldn't you say?" The man nodded and Sherlock smiled, "Unattainable for someone who chooses to, say, expel six thousand pounds annually..." The man sat and Molly and the two Holmes' watched as he calculated. "Abigail stays in school." He told the man gravely as he gestured for Abigail to follow him out.

The drive home was silent, which was a little strange. Molly always felt the need to make conversation when Sherlock was around. She didn't know why; it just seemed like a prerequisite. On the way home, Molly ordered takeout but of course, Sherlock ate nothing. _It's_ _not Wednesday yet_, had been his reasoning. Of course, Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes. His eating habits were more sporadic than Abigail's. It was yet another cause for Molly's concern about the Holmes'.

Tension was thick in the Hooper-Holmes household tonight and the mild breeze of the suburbs was colder. Abigail could tell when her mother wanted to argue with Sherlock and so, without question, she disappeared upstairs. That was one way to avoid a lecture - by giving it to your dad to sit through. Upstairs, she would have the freedom to ask Agatha Watsons if her mother cleared her name. It wasn't _her_ fault the teacher was creepy and hitting on her; he needed a good old-fashioned punch in the face.

It was downstairs, however, where the real drama was about to start.

"Sherlock, what was that?" No other words could find her. Sherlock's display had been... Something else. She had thought it had something to do with one of Sherlock's previous clients. He seemed more willing to resort to their methods instead of his own. He was acting stranger than normal, which was saying something for her dear Sherlock.

"That was exploiting the fact that the principal is terminally ill to keep our daughter in school. Problem?" He closed the door to the bathroom before Molly had a chance to respond. Following him, she stormed in there.

"Yes, it's a problem, Sherlock. Abigail won't have you to fight her battles for her her whole life and you need to stop abusing the beautiful gifts you were born with by getting your daughter out of facing consequences." Sherlock looked perplexed as he began to unbutton his shirt. Trying not to let that distract her from being angry, she folded her arms. She couldn't back down. This was a serious problem that had to be addressed.

The two were both as stubborn as each other and Molly knew when she was beat. This was not one of those times. It was agreed that Abigail had clean the house until it was spotless... Agreed wasn't exactly the word for it. Molly had basically told Sherlock that was how they were going to deal with it. Molly texted and told Mary the verdict.

Abby is going to clean the house -MH

How long are you going to torture the girl? -MW

P.S. Can Agatha join her? -MW

Molly was reluctant about that. They were both incorrigible and stubborn but then so was the state Sherlock always left the house in.

Sure :) -MH


	3. Chapter 3

Abigail Holmes thought it was cruel to make her clean her room but the whole house was just barbaric. There were much better ways to spend her weekend.

Agatha Watson showed up at her house just before her mother left for work.

"Spotless," Molly iterated for what seemed like the one hundredth time. "When your father wakes up, tell him Mary and John are coming over for dinner tonight." Abigail forgot that her father was more of a teenager than she was sometimes. Nodding, she said goodbye to Molly and walked into the living room. Where would they start?

Agatha decided to busy herself in the kitchen. Abigail looked at her questioningly.

"You've got to start somewhere, right?" The Watson girl began to clear the table. It was full of takeout bags and strange translucent liquids but that didn't seem to phase her. Agatha had quite a strong stomach except when she saw dead bodies...

"Oh, Agatha, be careful in the fridge; there's a couple of..." Before Abigail could finish her warning, Agatha screamed. The high pitched sound was an assault on her ears as she wondered about her sleeping father. If he was still asleep before, he wasn't anymore. "Maybe I should deal with the fridge," Abigail muttered, gesturing Agatha to the bench top. There were a few thumbs and a jar full of human eyes - nothing too outrageous; well, not for Sherlock Holmes.

The kitchen was cleaned but they hadn't started anything else. It had nearly been two hours.

"Your mum is pretty clean most of the time," Agatha observed as the cat circled her feet upon her exit from cleaning the bathroom, "It's you and your dad that make all the mess."

"It's not mess; it's thoroughly calculated chaos." Abigail laughed as she walked into Sherlock's room with a washing basket but Sherlock had gone. He wasn't in his bed and he certainly wasn't out in the kitchen. Deciding he must have gone out the back door, Abigail shrugged and scoped the floor for dirty clothes. Nothing particular caught her eye except a purple scarf. It had blood stains on it and naturally, there was no way Sherlock would wash it, so Agatha collected it and went into her own room. That was the real task. She came out of the room and carried the basket downstairs, where Agatha was about to make herself comfortable in what used to be John Watson's chair.

Eager to join her friend, Abigail put the washing on and went and sat in Sherlock's chair as they began to sort through the clutter.

"Sherlock did something to Downey," Abigail mused, "But it wasn't his... I don't know; style. It was more..." She trailed off before she could get too lost in thought. "Are you even allowed back at school?" Agatha just shook her head.

"I've been suspended. But come on! All I did was make his nose bleed! It wasn't like I broke his nose." She continued muttering things like maybe she should have. "Sherlock left in a hurry this morning; he didn't even take his coat." Abigail's eyes grew incredulous. He never went anywhere without that coat. Where could he have gone that would be so important that he'd forget his trademark clothing item. There was only one possibility.

"Someone took him to Mycroft." Agatha just shrugged. She'd been best friends with Abigail Holmes long enough to just go with it for no particular reason.

"Yeah he was wearing a kimono of sorts when he came out." Instantly, Abigail blushed and buried her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," Agatha just laughed and made a joke about how attractive her dad was. They dissolved into a fit of laughter as they put books back on the shelf and then there was a sound. It was a woman moaning erotically. Instantly, Agatha looked to her friend.

"My god; what was that?"

"Not me, I swear." Abigail turned to the back of the chair where Sherlock's coat hung and put a hand in the pocket. His phone had lit up and so she took it out.

"Abby, is that your dad's?" Agatha asked, walking over to investigate.

"Yeah, it's dad's alright." Abigail didn't call him dad to his face but when she was around others, she did. He told her it was just stupid nickname invented for babies so that they could identify their caregivers. It was locked which was weird; it never used to have a lock. There were three attempts allowed at opening it and Abigail wracked her mind for them as they stacked the books and tidied the cushions up.

"Sherlock is smart so he would make it something important to him..." Abigail began to think. Birthdays meant nothing to him and neither did computer binary code, so that narrowed down the possibilities. Sherlock didn't really have many things that were important to him. He had four friends, a partner and a child. She tried her own name first. Abby. Wrong. She would mull over the fact that he didn't think her important later. Right now, she had to focus on getting the code.

"I thought Sherlock didn't believe in love," Agatha wondered aloud. After eliminating the possible codes, there was only one left.

J O H N.

"No but sentiment gets the better of everyone once and a while, including Sherlock Holmes." The phone simply read: New Message (1) The Woman. Abigail opened it. Hello, Mr. Holmes. Let's have dinner.

"Do you think he's having an affair?" Agatha asked incredulously.

"Ag, he can barely stand a relationship with my mother much less two women." Agatha had to give her that. An affair would be the conclusion an idiot would jump to, in Abigail's mind, not that she was calling Agatha an idiot. "Who are you...?" She murmured to herself. "Watson, we have some investigating to do. The game is on."


	4. Chapter 4

Naturally, Abigail's way of investigating required a lot less physical effort than Sherlock's. Agatha knew just what do to. Quickly, she rushed to the phone and called house cleaners. That would be how this would be done. Abigail got her laptop out and began to inquire about this mysterious woman. She didn't have much to go on, except for the fact that she was named 'The Woman.' It turned out that was all she needed. The Woman was a dominatrix who provided recreational scolding.  
>"Your dad is kinky," Agatha laughed and Abigail just punched her in the arm. Despite having this evidence in front of her, she couldn't help but think there was more to it. Before she'd turned ten, he had drummed into her that it was completely idiotic to theorise based on little or no evidence. There was really only one way to find out. Abigail grabbed the phone and began to respond to the woman. <em>Okay -SH<em> was all she wrote. It wasn't until three that she replied. She had texted the name of the place and the time. Abigail had five hours to get ready and as the housekeepers left, one of them prompted Abigail that they left the washing in the machine because they had another job to tend to after this one that ended at four as per Agatha Watson's specifications. Remembering that she had put the washing in hours ago, Abigail rushed to the laundry.

She took out the washing and at the top was something that made her feel a little ill to think about. There, on the top of the laundry, was a scarf except it wasn't the blood-stained scarf she had taken from Sherlock's room. This scarf was a plain lilac scarf and it was blatantly staring at her in the face. She had ruined one of her dad's favourite scarfs and there was no way she could emotionally blackmail Sherlock because he was Sherlock and that just didn't happen. There was really only one person that could make Sherlock do anything and that was Molly Hooper and she wouldn't approve of that. There was only one solution and that was to try and pass it off like it was no big deal but she knew how fashion-conscious her dad was despite his supposed indifference and that made this much worse. She would have to grin and bear it.

Folding all of the washing, Agatha discounted them to each person's room and made sure that if she was going to be blatant about Sherlock's new improved lilac scarf, she would make it painfully obvious. Laying it across his pillow, she opened his bedside drawer to find a pen and there was something there that she was not expecting. He had a riding crop. Without trying to go back to Agatha's previous comment about how her dad was kinky, she wondered why he would have it. He could have had it to check for bruises at the morgue to see what kind of bruises such things could form but that was unlikely. Normally, he would just shoot his gun at the wall in the garage. That was the only place Molly allowed him to have an outlet. Trying not to think any more of it, she pushed it aside and found a pen. With it, she wrote: _Thought you could do with a splash lilac. Love Abigail._

By the time Abigail got back into the living room, the house was literally spotless. That was one thing off the list. Now, they had to distract their parents enough tonight so that they wouldn't realise that the two of them were going out to investigate a curious case of Sherlock's past. Sherlock would be onto them the moment they did something that was not minimal. That was the problem when the world's most observant man was your father. He knew what you were up to before you even knew and that was the one thing that really threw Abigail. She just had to manipulate Molly and that would settle the score and that would be easy enough to do. She could play Molly better than her father could play chess and that was certainly saying something.

The two teenagers devised a plan, wherein they spoke for half an hour about random teenage things and recorded it so that when Molly knocked on the door to check if they were okay, it would just be an audio recording and she would think nothing of it. It wasn't the most cunning or Machiavellian of plans but it was enough to fool Molly or even John who always wanted to think the best of their children. Mary and Sherlock were faster though but they respected that they had lives so they would not want to check on them at all. That was what made this plan infallible.

It wasn't until Molly came home that the plan would be set into motion.


	5. Chapter 5

It was almost dark outside by the time Molly got home and there was perfect silence in the Hooper-Holmes household. Upstairs, Agatha Watson and Abigail Holmes continued plotting what they would say to their parents as they made their way out of the window at eight-o'clock. To the untrained eye, it looked like they were talking about boys or even books they had read as they were sprawled all over the floor and looked very un-motivated to do anything.  
>"Girls," Molly's high pitched voice chimed as she called from downstairs. She almost sounded surprised that they managed to clean the entire house. Abigail walked downstairs casually and worked on Molly. Manipulation really was her strong point when it came to getting her own way but then, it ran in her family. Her uncle Mycroft was good at it too, apparently. She had only ever spoken to Mycroft once and that was because it was his partner's birthday and he wanted to meet the famous spawn of Sherlock Holmes. Naturally, Greg Lestrade didn't say that in so many words but judging by the way he was so incredulous, it was what he had been waiting for. Mycroft was never a very festive person from what Abigail could gather. All he did was pretend he was interested in the small talk Lestrade seemed to be so adamant on making with his friends John and Mary.<br>"Hey, mum," Abigail began, "What's up?" Abigail wondered to the fridge and got out two apples for her and Agatha.  
>"How did you… Never mind," she sounded a little flustered as she looked around for Toby the cat. "Hey, did you tell Sherlock about tonight?"<br>"Yeah about that…"  
>"<em>Abigail<em>," Molly pressed impatiently, "What happened to your father?"  
>"He kind of… Sort of got taken by Mycroft and his goons." Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes.<br>"Of course he did," she almost whispered and then she almost looked frustrated. "Why can't Mycroft just… Phone him or something?!"  
>"Tell me about it," Abigail sighed as she continued walking upstairs. "Oh and can Agatha and I get takeout so you adults don't bore us to death?"<br>"There's some leftovers in the fridge…" She trailed off as she walked into her room. That was part one done and dusted. Now, part two was the harder part.

Agatha and Abigail ate their apples as they contemplated on meeting the woman. Abigail wouldn't introduce herself as Sherlock's daughter outright. She would have to use an alias. Kate seemed like a logical choice. It was a common English girls' name from the eighties. The Woman looked to be born in the eighties. Once 'Kate' was introduced, she would pose as a P.A. of an interested party before asking her why she was dining alone. It sounded absolutely terrible in theory when Abigail tried to verbalise it to Agatha but she knew it would be better put into practice.

One of the most important things to consider was the disguise. If Abigail didn't have the correct guise, she could blow the whole operation. Luckily, Agatha Watson was something of a master of disguise. She didn't know why; she had a knack for it. Maybe it was inherited. They curled Abigail's hair and put a shade of blood lipstick on her and Agatha made sure her makeup made her look older and more sophisticated after the two of them dug around her drawers and wardrobe to find something elegant. She pulled out a black dress she didn't even know she had and it made her look at least twenty-three. Looking in the mirror though, Abigail saw something she never realised. She looked exactly like her father in some respects. Her eyes were two colours, flicking between a turquoise green to a deep ocean blue and her cheekbones were sharp but that was where the similarities stopped. Her mother shone through too; her complexion and her hair had never looked more like Molly Hooper than they did tonight and she wondered why that was. Agatha put the recording on pause and then there was a knock at the door. John and Mary were right on time.  
>"Agatha!" John called and as Agatha walked to the door, Abigail told her a story to tell them both.<br>"Hey," she smiled, "Sherlock is sort of with Mycroft right now." John rolled his eyes and thought he'd make himself at home.  
>"I can wait," Mary looked at her husband with contempt.<br>"We're going to look for him." She got her handbag and pulled John out of his chair and almost stormed off towards the car. Well, if they were all out looking for Sherlock that meant part two of the plan was executed without Abigail needing to resort to the recording. As soon John and Mary were out of sight, Abigail and Agatha set off to join the Woman at the restaurant.


	6. Chapter 6

In a suave part of England, there stood a restaurant obscure to anyone short of currency. This woman was classy it would seem. 'Kate' entered the restaurant with Agatha close behind her, acting as her protégé. They scoured the restaurant and it was a very methodical set up. The round tables were draped with white tablecloths with embroidered patterns and each couple sat directly opposite each other, gushing over each other and staring adoringly. It made Abigail feel a little uncomfortable. It was Agatha that spotted the Woman.

At a table sat a woman alone with ebony hair done in victory rolls and wearing a lace dress that barely left anything to the imagination. She did not look unhappy like one normally would if a date stood them up. Instead, she looked content as if eating alone was her true intention. This woman, Abigail thought, has quite the aura of self confidence; she practically sweats it out. That meant she would be a dangerous woman to cross. Nonetheless, Abigail's inquisitiveness got the better of her and she continued towards the mysterious woman from her father's past. Pulling up a seat, Abigail tried to deduce her the way her father would but nothing gave her away, not even her posture. It was alarming how bad she was at this despite all of those nights at the dinner table when they sat directly across from each other, deducing their thoughts, their actions, their emotions.

"Excuse me, ma'am," 'Kate' began in a hushed town, "Are you the one they call the Woman?" Abigail watched her face as she started to reply, looking for any possible sign whether it be uncertainty or even a twitch of her eyebrow but again, there was nothing.

"My name is Irene Adler," The Woman stared intensely at her and awaited her introduction.

"Kate Lestrade," Abigail hated using her uncle's last name as an alias but it was all she could think of in that moment. "I represent a..." Before she finished her official sounding cover story, Irene Adler was laughing under her breath. "Miss. Adler?"

"I told a friend of mine once that a disguise is always a self portrait." She poured champagne into the crystal wine glass and drank.

"You think I am elegant and sophisticated?" There was no point in trying to keep the disguise now.

"No, I think you are a teenager who tries to be more mature than she is." That was when Irene's eyes widened. The Woman noticed something. It was time to abort this mission. None of it was going to plan.

"I know about Sherlock Holmes," Abigail whispered, uncertain of what she was going to say next. Irene Adler laughed at Abigail's statement and focused on Abigail's features. Abigail could see recognition growing in her blue eyes. She could see Sherlock in her. That must have meant he meant a great deal to her. Maybe she was even in love with him. Sherlock never mentioned her and her name was saved as her 'professional' name on his phone. Was her love unrequited or was it double sided? She would never know because she had to blow this joint pronto.

"Tell daddy his favourite dominatrix sends her love. It's always a pleasure to meet a Holmes and... A Watson, I presume?" She asked, looking over at Agatha who joined them as soon as the façade fell to pieces. Solemnly, Agatha nodded and Irene simply smiled. "My, my, Miss. Holmes; what are we going to do with you?" Unsure how to respond, Abigail just wanted to go for the prize now. Raising an eyebrow, she looked at her in the eyes.

"You tell me." With a laugh, Irene leaned back in her chair and smiled.

"I could drop you home to mummy and daddy..." Abigail picked up the bottle of champagne.

"Or I could pour you another drink and you can tell me about Sherlock Holmes." Impressed by her own retort, Abigail kept a determined and straight face while she waited for Irene Adler to make her decision. "I'll make it worth your while," Abigail added slowly, wondering just how she would do that. What could a teenage girl give a woman who had everything? Unless, of course, it was something to do with Sherlock Holmes...

"Pour me that glass."


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft had been tiptoeing around the issue all day and that was something Sherlock detested in his brother. It wasn't like he was going to be compromised just because Irene Adler was alive and well and back in London. That much was obvious. What weren't so obvious were Mycroft's intentions. Normally, Sherlock could read Mycroft like a children's book – without any hesitation, precisely and accurately – but today, there was something off about it. At first, Sherlock had thought it an experiment to see if sentiment still got in the way of cases where she was concerned but that was unlikely, since he knew that Sherlock had recently been letting his emotions show more than usual. Focusing more intently on his brother, Sherlock squinted to see what the 'ice man' was trying to accomplish.  
>"You are insistent on that sheet of yours," Mycroft rolled his eyes as one of the cleaners came and placed it in Sherlock's arms.<br>"You are insistent in bringing me to deal with trivial cases concerning a certain female dominatrix. Now, what is it you want?" The person whose name meant nothing to Sherlock looked to Mycroft.  
>"Might I have a word with my brother?" Mycroft asked diplomatically and the man nodded and walked out of the room sceptically. Because the man had to leave the room, this definitely had something to do with a particularly dangerous person – someone like James Moriarty.<br>"My good friends," Mycroft started but Sherlock scoffed at the word. The only 'friend' his brother had was Lestrade and even then, what they had wasn't exactly friendship. "At the British government have received intelligence that a certain…" Sherlock shot his brother a look that told him to stop tiptoeing around the issue. "Apparently, an old friend of yours is in London. I say friend." Sherlock deciphered whom he meant in three seconds but he did not want to believe it. James Moriarty was dead, well and truly. He and his partner had dismantled his network singlehandedly, making sure each one of his associates were dealt with. They had almost dealt with an ancient crime syndicate. It was because of the disbanding of the network that Sherlock was able to have the life he did with Molly and Abigail, even though he was afraid of getting too close. Now that he was too close, he had too much to lose. "I'm happy to put your daughter and your… Pet into witness protection…" Sherlock shook his head instantly. He couldn't do that. They could handle themselves and after what he did to John all of those years ago, he didn't know if he wanted to deal with a heartbroken person again. They were too much work.  
>"They will be fine. Now, what do you think Moriarty wants?" Sherlock knew the answer was obvious but it was news to him that Moriarty had returned, so what else was the government withholding.<br>"What he always wants, Sherlock," Mycroft shook his head and buried his forehead in his hand, "A distraction, probably. London needs you." Sherlock smiled at that. As a child, Mycroft always told him that he was an idiot; that he was the stupid one, but now, it seemed the tables were turned and London was looking to Sherlock Holmes as opposed to the heart of the British government, the man named Mycroft Holmes.  
>"I'll take the case." Sherlock almost yawned as he spoke, signalling to his brother that he was tired and bored.<p>

Suddenly, they heard struggling footsteps entering the palace.  
>"Ma'am, you are not authorised to…" Sherlock and Mycroft could have sworn they saw the steam exploding from Molly Hooper's ears as she stormed into the foyer where they were standing. It always made Sherlock feel a little uneasy. An angry Molly was a frightening Molly and somebody messed with her dinner plans.<br>"Mycroft!" She exclaimed, sauntering up towards the eldest Holmes brother. "How dare you…"  
>"Ah, Miss. Hooper, always a pleasure," Mycroft began, ever the diplomat. "Apologies," he nodded towards her and then bade them good evening as he walked out of the room. Glaring daggers at him, Molly walked up to Sherlock.<br>"We were supposed to have dinner with John and Mary…" She began to chastise him but Sherlock did not want to have to listen to Molly's boring spiel and so instead, he kissed her. He figured her out over these last few years; he'd known her the longest out of all of the people he knew and trusted, so she was like an open book, one that he enjoyed ready. He really cared about Molly, despite his trying to push it down and there was nothing he wouldn't do for her. Unable to express that in words, he poured it into his kiss and she reciprocated and seized his sharp jawline. Although he knew he wasn't off the hook completely, Sherlock and Molly both got into the car without needing to say another word to each other and drove back to the house.

Their dinner party was still on, apparently.


	8. Chapter 8

"Abigail's gone out, hasn't she?" Molly let out an exasperated sigh. Sometimes, there was no stopping her once she got an idea. She reminded Molly a lot of Sherlock when she went off at the most sporadic of times. "I think we should wait up for her." Sherlock said nothing in reply but nodded his head slightly. After Molly did all of the dishes and fed Toby, she joined Sherlock at the table, hoping to ask Sherlock how he thought the dinner party went despite knowing he would brush it off. Tonight was one of those nights when Sherlock looked upset about something when everyone else turned away. He always thought no-one would notice but Molly would. Molly Hooper always noticed. She had argued with herself for years, wondering if that made her insignificant or special. Right now, she hoped it was the latter. When Sherlock's eyes darted to his bookcase, she thought better of it. There was no way she would get through to him if he was not focused on his feelings. Nevertheless, she felt the need to make conversation.

"How are we going to deal with Abigail?" Sherlock was uninterested but he did reply, using words only sparingly.

"I will," his voice almost sounded cold and Molly worried about the approach he would take.

By the time Abigail Holmes walked in the door, it was nearing eleven. Molly watched her daughter's face go from satisfied to afraid in almost seconds as she joined them at the table. Nobody spoke and nobody moved.

They all sat at the table. No less than three feet separated father and daughter as they both sat, with their teal eyes boring into each others intrusively and their hands pressed together in an almost prayer-like way; fingertips just shy of their chins. They were deducing. Molly knew better than to disturb them. They could sit like that for hours.

And that was exactly what they did.

They had been sitting there, mirrors of each other, for three hours before Abigail broke the silence.

"What do you see?" She asked, not taking her eyes off him.

"I see you," Sherlock told her. "Abigail Holmes."

"No, Sherlock. What do you see?" That would have confused someone else but not him.

"I see you; a person with a vast intellect that keeps isolated from a number of people because of it. You only have a handful of friends whom you trust completely, one of which you would do anything for - even kill for." Sherlock looked into her eyes deeper. "You always want people to think you don't care and you are a master manipulator of emotions because you know how people think and feel. You can feel but you choose not to so you don't get hurt."

"Stop," Abigail told him sternly.

"I'm almost done. You aren't close to..."

"Sherlock Holmes, stop speaking right this instant." In that moment, Abigail sounded like her mother but it got Sherlock's attention. Before she spoke, she got up from her chair and from a cupboard under the stairs, she got a mirror.

Holding the mirror towards Sherlock, she watched as he began to look perplexed.

"Now, what do you see?" Sherlock nodded slowly, beginning to see where this was going.

"A high functioning sociopath," He answered with strong certainty. At his answer, Abigail shook her head and slid the mirror across the table to him.

"That's not what's there. You see but you do not observe. I see someone who is scared. I see someone who feels a lot more than he wants to but he doesn't let himself because he doesn't want to hurt again." Sherlock stayed silent. "What happened to you, dad?" Her voice was a whisper as she called him the name he so blatantly hated. She knew her father well enough to know that what made him the way he was was his own decision. She just couldn't put her finger on why.

"Go," he told her angrily. Doing as she bid, Abigail stood up from her chair and on the way upstairs, she put her hand on his shoulder almost as angrily as he spoke.

"You aren't a sociopath and you are most certainly not high functioning." Sherlock Holmes was stunned. "You chose to switch off your emotions so you don't hurt anymore. You saw yourself in me which is why you were slow to analyse me..."

"Alright, Abigail, I think it's time you go to bed." Molly interjected but nobody really payed attention. As far as they were concerned, they were the only two in the room.

"I don't..." Sherlock began but he trailed off, shaking his head. Sherlock Holmes was speechless.

"I know about Redbeard." Sherlock froze at the name. "Mycroft told me everything." Abigail waited for Sherlock's reaction - an outburst or something but that didn't happen. Instead he watched the off television set as something like tears accumulated in his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

Abigail hated how much that hurt her father but someone had to say it and Molly would never had done it. Tears were in her eyes as she slammed her door in a typical teenage fashion. She couldn't fathom why he would keep everything from her. What was he so afraid of? Everything Irene had said was consistent with her small conversations with Mycroft that were relatively under wraps. He let Mycroft see him for who he was and he let the Woman see but he wouldn't even consider telling his daughter. That was what confused her the most.

As the night grew into the liminal hours of the morning, Abigail tossed and turned in her bed. How could she sleep while her father was angry with her? That had never happened before and she had never felt more alone.

Before she could stew any further, she decided perhaps she should do something productive with her restlessness. Underneath her ever growing stack of disorganised papers was a science assignment. She never did any of them; they were basic elementary but for now, she simply wanted to busy herself. Slaving away, writing down the most tedious of observations, Abigail ended up having more fun than she anticipated and although her eyes were tired from tears, she had completed the whole assignment and the extra credit part with precision and doubtless accuracy before she lay down her head at three in the morning to sleep.

It wasn't until four in the afternoon that Abigail arose on that Sunday, apparently despite Molly's best efforts. When she got up, she did not want to get dressed. What was the point anyway? It wasn't like they were going anywhere.

"Oh, so you are alive," Molly smiled, as she saw Abigail emerge in the reflection of the mirror as she refreshed her lipstick. "I thought I was going to have to do a post-mortem." Abigail rolled her eyes and pulled her sheet closer to her, wearing it as a robe. Taking in what her mother looked like, it was hardly a difficult deduction that she was going out somewhere. Her hair was tied back out of her face and her lipstick new and fresh even though it had been applied twice... Three times and her skin was positively glowing and she wore new jeans and a black blazer as opposed to her pink and cream jumper.

"Where are you going?" Abigail asked with a yawn.

"You are coming too; we're going to your grandmother's birthday." Abigail rolled her eyes. If they were anything like Sherlock said they were, this was a total nightmare.

"Yes, cheerio, mother, I have an important science assignment I must do before tomorrow..." Molly shook her head and turned to her.

"You don't do science assignments. Now go and find something nice to wear." Unwilling to comply, Abigail just marched right up to her room, stopping on the staircase.

"Why are we doing this? We never do this." Molly put her hands on her hips and sighed.

"You sound exactly like your father; now, get _dressed_." Her tone was low, which marked the threatening transition between loving and awkward mother to fierce Amazonian warrior princess, as Abigail liked to call it whenever her mother implored her to do something. Knowing better to mess with a mad Molly Hooper, Abigail Holmes walked into her bedroom. She flung herself back on her bed as the falling sun shone through her window, refusing her any unnecessary sleep. The Holmes girl closed her eyes for a second before she heard intrusive banging on the door. There was just no winning when Molly had plans.

Somehow, Abigail ended up in a t-shirt and jeans, carrying a gift basket, sitting silently in the backseat of Molly's small car. Sherlock and Abigail had both tried to justify not bringing a gift but Molly simply wouldn't have it. Despite her contemporary choice of clothes and even houses, Molly Hooper was very old-fashioned. This was going to be humiliating; she felt like a child. She was bringing a wooden basket full of baked goods to her grandmother, all because Molly thought it would have been nice.

The drive to the small Holmes cottage was drenched in heavy silence from the tensions created the night before. Abigail could tell Sherlock had not forgiven her yet and it made her heart sink a little. Had she known he would be so affected, she would never have told him the truth so bluntly.

As they approached the small red house, Abigail saw nothing but a rural headache. There was a large paddock and a forest only a few feet away, made up of mostly pine and the occasional other species that were difficult to identify from so far away. Molly parked the car beside the driveway and they all got out, both Sherlock and Abigail unwillingly so. Despite her reluctance, Abigail led the two adults to the door. It wasn't that she found her grandparents unpleasant, it was more the fact that she didn't want to socialise today. She raised her hand to knock on the door but Sherlock's mother opened it before her hand collided with the wood.

Mrs. Holmes was always an exuberant woman; a genius and definitely someone with an admiration for frivolity. Inviting her family inside, the older woman ushered them into the living room and Abigail handed her the basket.  
>"Abigail!" The white haired woman hugged her tightly, after setting the basket aside on the coffee table. "You've grown so much since I last saw you!" Abigail was waiting for her grandmother to stop fussing over her. It was <em>her<em> birthday and she should be thinking about herself – like a normal person _but then, nothing about the Holmes family was normal_, Abigail sighed to herself. "I bought this for you." On the coffee table sat a red hooded coat that was the most beautiful piece of clothing Abigail had ever seen but she didn't let on at first. "I hope you like it." Abigail smiled at her Mrs. Holmes, from ear to ear.  
>"I love it, Grandma."<p> 


	10. Chapter 10

As the night bore on, Abigail grew bored. There was nothing here that she hadn't figured out in only a few short minutes. Nothing except what was outside but naturally, she detested outside so that didn't count obviously. But it did count. It looked so mysterious outside as the sky grew darker and darker, turning from twilight into a harsh bluebell hue and as the wind picked up, sweeping over the grass like a razorblade scratching a table. Judging by the speed of the trees in the forest, Abigail could only guess that the cold southerly wind had generated a temperature that had to be, at most, eight degrees. That definitely meant she was not going outside. If it were up to her, she would have never have left her house.

After all of the frivolities with Mrs. Holmes receiving her gifts, Abigail couldn't take it anymore. Mycroft had gone home and although she had asked if he could take her, he had declined.

"I am going outside to try my new coat," she smiled sweetly at everyone while she spoke before picking her coat up off the coffee table.

"Take the basket back to the car too, Abby," Her grandfather instructed warmly as he continued the search for his glasses underneath the couch.

"It's such a shame Myc had to rush off." Grandma Holmes, as Abigail called her, was annoyed at her eldest son whom, she knew had feigned a government crisis just to get away. Leaving them to their business, Abigail took the basket and exited out the back door, shrugging into her new red coat.

When she got outside, the air was crisp and hit her like a slap in the face. Trying to ignore the cold, she pulled her hood up over her brown hair and began to walk into the forest. She wasn't exactly sure why she had wanted to go into the forest. It was possibly because it was the only part of the house that was new to her. It was something to do to quench that insatiable boredom and emptiness that she so frequently felt. _Curse being Sherlock Holmes' daughter_, she thought resentfully as her footsteps led her deep off into the nighttime. The ground was damp as she watched her Doc Martens accumulate with the stray leaves on the edge of the forest floor. Suddenly, the forest didn't look too appealing but the curiosity of it; the very fact that it was a forest placed sporadically in the middle of nowhere made it much more interesting.

As soon as she walked into the forest, she knew it was a mistake. All of the trees looked the same and by the time she had opted to turn back it was too late. She kept going around in circles and it was like the trees had grown around her and encased her in a cell. Theoretically, there were about eight solutions to her getting out of the forest. She could call for help but that would be illogical. No-one would be able to hear her through the walls. Another was that she could keep running, basket in hand until she reached the other end of the forest edge but she did not know where that led to. For all she knew, it could be a top secret military base where they genetically modified animals or even people but she knew not to get ahead of herself. That was highly unlikely, given the balance of probability, but the fact that she would have to go deeper into the forest to get out really alarmed her. After dismissing the remaining options, she decided she might have something buried away in that mind palace of hers. Ever since she was a girl, she had pleaded with her father to teach her the technique and even though she knew he was uncomfortable doing so, she had been taught well.

Her mind palace was the Inveraray Castle in Scotland. She had no idea why but it was just a beautiful place - one of her favourite pieces of architecture. She walked up the long drive way and into the foyer before going up the stairs, searching through her information. Opening drawers and pulling curtains frantically to search for information about how to get out of a forest, Abigail could see a figure materialising in the distance. Sherlock Holmes was standing three steps above her.  
>"Abigail Holmes," he began, his deep voice echoing in the stone corridor, "Think." He sounded disdainful as he spoke but no less authoritative. He kept repeating it and Abigail thought harder and harder, wracking her mind for something that could help her. Like a sudden gust of wind, an idea came rushing to Abigail's head as her mind palace faded and she returned to the forest. All she had to do was call upon her internal compass. It was a technique her grandmother had taught her when she was a child. She only vaguely remembered it because it had been such a long time since she had stayed here last. Eight years old and lost, Abigail struggled to find her way back home after she had gone down to the river and upon her grandmother finding her, they sat down and Mrs. Holmes taught her how to navigate herself.<p>

Just as she began to turn away to go back to the car, she heard something in the forest. It was a dark night now, so it was probably a nocturnal bird of sorts. Taking big strides, she felt a little feeling of panic arise in her. She was being watched by something. The atmosphere was too cruel to be that of a person. Perhaps it was a wolf... The very prospect made the girl in the red hood run faster until she hit something; another person.

In the bright light of the moonlight, she took a step back to see whom she was meant to apologise to. As the person smiled, recognition sparked in Abigail and her eyes widened. This was unexpected.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was more bored than he had ever been and he knew this day would come so he had insisted that Abigail brought an extra coat to keep in the car and that wasn't out of concern for his daughter. It was out of concern for his sanity. He had planted his cigarettes in the lining of her coat, without her consent of course, so that he would always have his stash of gratification when situations became direly _cuddly_ at his house. No one would think of Molly as the culprit and as Sherlock expected, the coat had been in the car for quite some time.  
>"I'm going to go and tell Abigail to make haste," Sherlock smiled at his family earnestly, "We can't have your only..." Sherlock struggled, limps compressed grimly, at the word 'grandchild'. He never really saw Abigail as a normal father would; he saw her as himself, which Sherlock hated. Abigail had been right. Abigail was what he would have been like if he had a balance between emotions and intellect but sentiment, he had once told someone he knew, was a chemical defect found on the losing side. It had been proven a weak point in the face of one's enemies. As he lit his cigarette and inhaled the nicotine, he felt like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. This vice made things seem at least bearable. It would take approximately forty-one more minutes for Molly to get bored with his parents.<p>

In this distance, Sherlock heard the faintest scream that was shrill and piercing. At once, the cigarette slipped from his mouth and his body moved before him. Time started to slow. Running in the general direction, he deduced it to be Abigail, who was nowhere near the car after she'd said she would take the basket. His daughter, his only daughter was in danger. She knew how to defend herself but he still felt that annoyingly overwhelming urge to protect her. Four scenarios began to conjure in Sherlock's head, none of which were particularly favourable and so, he, now with frantic determination, picked up his speed.

Abigail was not the kind of person to scream if she saw a spider, wince at a scar, or cry at the sight of a dead body and so, someone must have caught her by surprise. But who would be lurking near the Holmes residence? Who would be so obsessed with the Holmes family that they would know every last detail? He had stopped being the hat detective after Moriarty's network was fully dismantled. The press died down after that and he was a forgotten name in the world again, which suited him just fine. That meant that when Abigail was born, only a handful of people knew about it and stranger still, Sherlock could almost count the people on one hand that knew where his parents lived. Even so the question slithered through his mind like a snake in the reeds; why Abigail? She was but a teenage girl. What could a psychopath want with a teenage girl? Sherlock could have thought of one million ideas but what if it was to get his attention? A name cropped up in his head; a deeply buried name that Mycroft had been tossing around a lot lately.

_Moriarty._

Despite how improbable it seemed, he wondered, if he were alive like Mycroft said he was, why would he come out and play now, of all times?

The frightened scream led him to a clearing. Enveloped in the black silhouettes of trees and scraggly branches, he feet stomped in circles on damp floor of leaves and dirt. Suddenly in the moonlight, he saw something peculiar. A manila brown envelope decorated with a plainly painted brick house, so out of place, almost comical against the grimness of the forest. He wasn't fooled; he knew him all too well.Sherlock picked it up and saw the red seal. Headmitted to himself now that he sometimes had nightmares about it although he never let on. Jim Moriarty was not dead. How was he not dead? How had he come back to life? Sherlock opened the envelope with his dry tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, half from desperation and worry and half from something else.

_Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?_

Mycroft had been right. Moriarty was back_._

Sherlock stifled the urge to roll his eyes. He never quite learned to like riddles, despite his biggest enemy only working in them - and of course, John's riddle games only left him frustrated.

John. He had to tell John Watson about this because he would be the only one who could help. He dialed John's number faster than any other and the phone began to ring.

"Sherlock?"

"Vatican cameos." Sherlock told him and he could tell John would have rolled his eyes at how dramatic he sounded but this was important.

"Where are you?" John asked in all seriousness.

"At my parents' house," This gained a laugh from the other end.

"At your parents' house... Christ, Sherlock, really?"

"Moriarty took Abigail," that was when the phone was hung up. _How rude_, Sherlock thought as he hung up his phone. He heard footsteps and by the walking pace, it could only be Molly; the only person shorter than Molly at the house would have been Abigail and she wasn't there.

"Sherlock, what are you doing out here? Where's Abby?" Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he stood frozen in his position, reading over Moriarty's riddle. He recognised the fairytale but what he couldn't quite work out was why? In Grimm's, which the psychopath had sworn by, Red killed the wolf, not the other way around.

Molly looked around, expecting to see Abigail, probably thinking it was some sort of cruel joke that she was playing on her. "Sherlock?" Sherlock still said nothing.

"Where. Is. My. Daughter. Sherlock Holmes?" She enunciated each word venomously to evoke a response out of him but he still remained in his place.

Storming off, Molly went to find clues as to where her daughter might be. She scurried the ground, searching behind every branch, every tree that her eyes would allow her in the constraints of the moonlight. Abigail would never have wandered completely into the darkness because she was smart. She knew that if she did, she wouldn't find her way back until she could see again. Molly's heart began to quicken, with dread, fear and worry growing like an infectious weed darting through her bloodstream. What if something terrible had happened to her? What if somebody had taken her? What if they were going to kill her? The very thought brought tears to Molly's panic stricken eyes as she began to run now, no longer scanning the ground for her daughter's feet, but rather the trees for her coat. She had been angry at Abigail earlier that day for not wanting to go to the Holmes' house but all of that would be forgiven if her little girl would just come back to her.

Sherlock stared at the piece of paper, reading the words and waiting for John. He was the one for riddles. He could get himself out of the stickiest of situations with riddles. It was then that something came rushing into his view rapid.  
>"Sherlock bloody Holmes! This isn't funny! If you don't tell me where my daughter is right now..." Molly was cut off mid yell by the sound of further footsteps on the ground. John Watson emerged from the shadows and into where the moon hit the ground.<br>"John," Sherlock began instantly even before John caught up to him. "Moriarty has Abigail Hooper," Sherlock changed her last name to Hooper to distance himself from the case. It was something Mycroft had advised him to do when she was born. It reminded Sherlock not to get involved. "He left this. You're good with riddles." Sherlock handed him the paper and then John deciphered it in a little longer than what Sherlock had taken.  
>"Red Riding Hood," he muttered.<br>"Exactly. What do you say, John? Up for a case?" John stared at him incredulously. Sherlock could read him like a book; he was taken aback by the fact that he was taking this as a 'game' rather than the fact that his daughter had been kidnapped by the most dangerous man in London - and, by extension, the world but there was something in his eyes. Sherlock had seen that look before. John Watson felt the adrenaline course through him like a fast flowing river, the familiar sensation that regulated John, that kept him, in a way, sane. He nodded grimly, while waiting for Sherlock to say his trademark line.  
>"Well, Watson-" Sherlock whispered, unaware of how agonized Molly looked beside him, his brilliant mind conjuring ideas beyond counting. "The game is on." But this was not a game at all. Sherlock had to find Abigail, if not for her own sake, than for his. <em>Don't get involved,<em> his brother had told him, but it was too late. Sherlock Holmes had been involved in Abigail Holmes' life from the first day he met her. He was not about to let that go. He had only ever made two vows in his life – one to watch out for John, Mary and Agatha and one to protect his daughter. He was not a person to break vows.

With a heavy heart but a brilliant poker face, Sherlock Holmes turned back towards the car.


	12. Chapter 12

It was cold wherever Abigail Holmes was. It was cold and dark. She could see nothing. Her coat was still on her and her hands were bound behind her back.  
>"Oh, Abigail," said a familiar voice, "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"<br>"Why are you doing this?" Abigail couldn't stop her voice from shaking. Despite her father's inherited stubbornness, her voice always betrayed her. It was just the one thing she couldn't master. It wasn't like the person would tell her why they were doing it but it just brought Abigail some time to feel around for where she was. She could feel a cold floor, like the bottom of a prison cell, made from large black tiles. Her hands were bound with rope; she could feel them tight around her wrists. It was a reef knot. They were easy to get out of. Why would her captor tie a reef knot? They knew who she was. They knew what she was capable of.

When the person, who never missed a trick, realised that Abigail had broken her bounds, Abigail only saw their bright white teeth in a cruel smile before the fluorescent light turned on and temporarily blinded her vision before it fully came into focus.  
>"Now, I want you to tell me all about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes."<p>

Molly Hooper was frantic to say the least. She went over to Mary and John's and recruited Agatha to help her put out missing person posters and she phoned Mycroft and Lestrade six times in one day, just to know that they would follow up and do their duties – Mycroft to his niece and Lestrade to his friends. Mycroft had always hated the fact that Abigail was his blood. It wasn't that he resented her; she was quite neat, when she wasn't trying to be clever like her father but he would never let on. That was something the Holmes gentlemen never did.

That night, Molly lay awake in her bed, tossing and turning, thinking about how alone, isolated and cold her daughter must be. It was the worst feeling in the world. She felt like she had failed as a mother, as her guardian. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was someone presenting her with a mutilated body of a teenage girl with her own brown hair and her father's face structure; the lifeless Abigail Holmes cold and blue on a slab in the morgue like it was just another body. She got up and tried to call Abigail's mobile again but it went straight to voicemail. Molly said nothing. She knew it would be no use. She just wanted to hear her daughter's voice again, even though she had been gone for a day. If it were under any circumstances but this, the kind she really feared, it would have been fine because Molly knew she would be alright. Now, she had lost that certainty and Sherlock wasn't helping.

"Have you left that sofa?" Molly demanded, storming into the living room, where, it seemed, Sherlock had been lying on the sofa for the last twenty-seven hours.  
>"Yes," Sherlock told her but he did not move. He laid on his back, with his hands together, his fingertips touching his chin as if he were praying. He did that a lot.<p>

Suddenly, an idea struck him. He had to go and get John and they had to follow it up. Rushing into his room, Sherlock picked up his coat and his scarf in a hurry, without taking any notice that the scarf was now a lilac shade as opposed to the dark plum.  
><em>Baker St. Now. – SH<em>

Even though neither of them lived there anymore, it was just a lot easier for them to think there. They didn't know why, nor did they question it. Maybe it was a form of nostalgia. Baker Street had changed for them. It had grown more mature, just like they had. Mrs. Hudson, in all her flighty glory, made them tea, while murmuring away at how sad it was that Abigail was missing. Thanks to Molly's irrationality, with putting signs and posters everywhere, nearly the whole of London knew that Abigail was missing and that would not help them weed out the perpetrator. The two sat, in the dust riddled flat, in their old chairs and did not say a word for quite some time.  
>"Lilac was never really my colour," Sherlock said, finally breaking the heavy silence that Baker Street always brought on.<br>"I remember you telling me how much you hated it," John said in return but Sherlock could feel something in the air. John had been arguing with Mary or Agatha. There was something about him today. His voice was strained and Sherlock thought him a prickly hedgehog that balled up when he was stressed; when his manner became short and his posture became tired.  
>"John, I need you to concentrate and you won't do that unless you have sorted your domestic with Mary," Sherlock deduced it was Mary instead of Agatha because Agatha had been a surrogate daughter for Molly while Molly was searching for Abigail. John shook his head and then Sherlock told him his idea.<br>"Jim Moriarty is going for a Red Riding Hood effect, yes?" John nodded, wondering where Sherlock was going with this. "That means he _wants _to get caught." Sherlock was being cryptic again. John hated it when he got like this.  
>"Then where do we start looking?" Sherlock pondered that question for a moment.<br>"In all of the wolf dens we can think of." Ideas began to boil in Sherlock's head, like a cauldron on a flame. He stuck his notes on the wall that he had constructed when Molly thought he was still dormant on the couch. Drawing string to them, there were six locations where they might be. None of them were conspicuous but Moriarty loved his little games and this was a particularly sick one indeed, but it was no match for him.


	13. Chapter 13

It was almost like old times; Sherlock and John catching cabs everywhere, frantically chasing after super villains but there was something different this time.  
>"Sherlock, why do you wear that scarf?" John asked, breaking the heavy silence that had befallen them as they drove to the first of many dens. Sherlock just shrugged,<br>"It does the same job as all of my other ones," he said somewhat dismissively before abruptly telling the cab to stop. The reason he didn't have a different scarf was because he was simply too lazy to buy a new one - also, it was there in his time of need; much like his friend John Watson.

It was very easy to miss. A small tavern seemingly in the middle of nowhere stood and there was simply one car there. Sherlock had suspected this place mostly because Moriarty loved to exaggerate the importance of trivial places and because he knew London better than the back of his hand, he would go to places only Sherlock would think of. Sure, there were heaps of places like this he could go but Sherlock had a feeling about this one. This had to lead them to her.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, clearly not noting anything suspicious or distinctly Moriarty. Sherlock saw Moriarty all over this small establishment. The bartender was wearing a spider tie, eyeing Sherlock and John as they walked in and the only customer was twisting a red apple that almost looked painted a blood red on the bar. When Sherlock approached, the customer stood up from his stool and left his apple and a small piece of folded parchment on his way out. This is was so painfully obvious that even Scotland Yard could get somewhere. As the main left, he began to sing a tune with a slight Russian accent.

"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out then out came the sun and dried and the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again." With that, the man got into his car and drove away.

"Moriarty loves theatrics," John whispered sourly, echoing Sherlock's thoughts. "What does the parchment say?" Sherlock moved the apple to one side and opened the small piece of paper.

_Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all? _

This was inconsistent with Moriarty's initial design. Snow White and Red Riding Hood were very different fairytales. One had the main antagonist was as not even human and the other was where the antagonist was a very powerful woman. Instead of talking, he handed to his friend and stared into the bartender's tie to think. Why would Moriarty want to know who the 'fairest of them all' was? It didn't make sense. Clearly, Moriarty had his daughter and the story went, based on the slim knowledge he had on the matter, that the queen had someone rip the heart out of the young girl but the man was overtaken by sentiment and got her the heart of an animal instead. So, he intended to rip her heart out, that was clear but the person who would be overtaken by sentiment would be Sherlock Holmes. That was when it hit Sherlock. The man who deceived the queen had his heart ripped from his chest as well before trying to pursue Snow White. He had to die to save his daughter if that was the case. He had exhausted his brother's resources the last time he needed to disappear. Faking his death twice was a little tedious so he would find another way. Abigail was clever; she knew how to calculate.

"Sherlock," John proceeded to explain what Sherlock had just ruled out in his head but Sherlock did not let on because John had some extra insight he had missed. John was good with riddles like this. Maybe it was because he was more romantic than Sherlock. "Moriarty is going to poison her," Sherlock couldn't tell exactly where John was going with this. Fairytales had never really been his area. "We have three days before that happens. Either we find the wolf's den in three days or Abigail will..." John shook his head. He didn't want to think about it. Sherlock considered John's input but not for very long. Abigail knew what poison was - how to identify it. But that, in no way, lessened the urgency of his search.

"You're right, John," Sherlock lied as he folded the parchment and put it in his pocket. John looked bewildered at Sherlock's lie but Sherlock ignored it. This case, minus the personal touch, was not unlike a case he had seen. before; there were two children who were kidnapped...

As Sherlock was mentally reminiscing over that case, it came to him. Moriarty was using Abigail to deflect the attention from his masterplan. Moriarty's main objective was to kill Sherlock Holmes, despite wanting to make Sherlock dance for his amusement. A psychopath, James Moriarty was, but he was certainly not unintelligent and he knew, now that Sherlock had broken down his emotional walls, that Abigail would be his breaking point. It wasn't John anymore in Moriarty's eyes and that, in a way, relieved Sherlock very much. John had been the man to teach him humility and that was important.  
>"Sherlock," John began, "Let's go." The note seemed to burn in Sherlock's pocket. How could such a small piece of parchment be so heavy? The connotations of the fairytale echoed in his mind as he thought of possibilities. Perhaps, Moriarty was not working alone and if that was the case, then who might be his accomplice? Who hated Sherlock so much that she - it had to be a she obviously - wanted to see him break?<p>

John led the way back out to the cab, that had very generously waited for them as they had no other form of transport in the deepest part of London. On the way out, Sherlock hummed to himself.

_The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout, down came the rain and washed the spider out then out came the sun and dried and the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again_.


	14. Chapter 14

Abigail Holmes thought it suspicious that the person, whatever their name was, was not torturing her. That was generally the best way to get honest information out of a person from her father's stories. She didn't want to be tortured obviously but that meant they needed her alive. So, they were willing to make a trade of sorts but the real question remained; why? If the perpetrator had been Jim Moriarty, she would have understood but it wasn't him.

"Why are you doing this?" Abigail asked at the table, staring the one who must have been 'the Big Bad Wolf' directly in the eyes. Her voice no longer shook. She had been there for nearly a week now, repeating the same routine; sitting at a table, answering moderately obscured questions about her father and barely eating because Abigail knew not to trust the food they gave her. She only ate the food she watched them eat previously. It was the only way she could ensure it wasn't laced with poison. The dark brown eyes of the wolf were cruel.

"It's for your own good. Now, if you don't tell us the information we require, we will see to it that that will be your last mistake." We? There was a new detail. There was more than one person doing this. That was a game changer. Instead of letting on she observed this new information, she let out a cruel laugh.

"You can't kill me. I'm your last hope at getting to Sherlock Holmes."

The song echoed in Sherlock's head, even in the Russian accent the man had sung it in, as he thought of possible places. Where would be the place to hide a child without suspicion? Hotels were a likely choice and Moriarty's female companion would do well blending in, whoever she was unless, of course, she was Irene Adler. She wouldn't blend anywhere; she was too confident in herself. It created a powerful presence that demanded attention when she walked into the room.

"Where would Moriarty go?" John wondered aloud before the taxi came to a complete stop outside Baker Street. Sherlock was two steps ahead of John, already ruling out further places. It wasn't like Moriarty to be obvious and take her somewhere hostile, at least not if it were he that had taken her. A hotel was, again, looking like a likely option. That meant he could try something new. Abigail Holmes was a brilliant hacker and she had a smart phone. Why he had not thought of this initially baffled him for a moment. Moriarty was a brilliant psychopath; he always wanted to get caught, even if it was someone else who took the blame. He had told John what seemed like so long ago now, g_enius needs an audience_ and despite his many, many faults, Moriarty was a genius. He took out his phone and went into his inbox as if on instinct. There, as one of four threads in his inbox, was a name he did not expect. _The Woman. _That was strange. He didn't remember texting her, or hearing her text alert. He opened the thread and saw he had replied. His daughter had been meddling. Of course she had. He couldn't help a small smile from creeping up onto his lips. She had been very cunning with this secret of hers, distracting him with deductions about both himself and her, which had proved to be exactly the same apparently. Sherlock had denied her deductions. They couldn't be true of him. He didn't want to feel because he knew that would cloud his judgment, not because he didn't want to hurt again. At least, that was what he believed. He connected his phone to the internet and used Abigail's login for 'Find My Phone'. She was too similar to him. He had hacked her phone only days before she had decided to snoop around his. Her phone had come up with 221B Baker Street. It was early days and Sherlock was willing to play Moriarty's game and so, to the flat they would go.

The two of them got out of the car and Sherlock walked speedily up the stairs, John right behind him. Sunshine gleamed through the window of the dusty room as Sherlock looked around for one of Moriarty's envelopes. He would not have planted Abigail's phone here. He needed to get caught; he needed Sherlock to find him and he would do that elaborately and obscurely. Suddenly, they heard a bang coming from Sherlock's old room, which he still occupied from time to time. John opened the door, his hand on his gun in his pocket just in case but when he opened it, he saw someone he did not expect.  
>"Molly, Agatha; what are you guys doing here?" Molly's eyes darted to Sherlock over John's shoulder and then back to where she was looking. She didn't want to meet his eyes.<br>"The same thing you are. We followed the GPS on Abigail's phone." John looked stunned.  
>"Does everybody know that girl's password?"<br>"54522," Everyone replied almost instantly. John rolled his eyes and just went with it,  
>"So, have you found anything or not?" Agatha shook her head but Molly bit her lip nervously.<br>"Sherlock," she began, "I found some DNA and it matches Mycroft. He hasn't been here lately, has he?" Now that she mentioned it, Sherlock realised he hadn't spoken to his brother since that day they were in Buckingham Palace, despite him being over at their parents' house a number of long days ago.  
>"Why would Mycroft come to Baker Street?" Sherlock wondered aloud, trying to piece some of the puzzle together.<br>"Maybe he was looking for you? Your brother is known for face to face contact." John sounded bitter as he spoke; maybe because it was about the meetings so many years previously in the Diogenes club.  
>"Mycroft would have been here searching for an item." It hit Sherlock like lightning as he spoke. He was looking for Sherlock Holmes' ivory box.<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock recalled the Culverton Smith case as a wave of something like panic washed over him. The Culverton Smith case was a case he had solved with the help of Molly. Staring at the empty space where the box that had become so important to him once was, he blinked away what emotions it conjured.  
>"He didn't take what he was looking for," Sherlock murmured, remembering the intricate pattern of black and white ivory box, with the sliding lid. "Why would he take it?" Molly peered over at him to read his face and even though he couldn't see her, Sherlock knew Molly was panicked too. The Culverton Smith case was an interesting one - the last case before Sherlock left London. It had been years but Sherlock still remembered it clearer than anything.<p>

It was a bitterly cold day and the winds of Baker Street howled as children held onto their ear hats for dear life and Sherlock Holmes was in his bed. He had been in his bed for three days.

He extended his arms, almost to the point of exertion. He needed one more; one more case before he left London and it couldn't be with John. Molly was the only one he could trust now that the world thought he was dead. He composed a message: _I'm ill. Come to Baker Street? SH._ He figured playing on her sympathy and affection for him would be the best way of getting her help.

Sure enough, Molly had delivered. She rushed over, went upstairs and went into the bedroom.  
>"Molly," Sherlock mustered something of a brave smile, injecting as much of his illness into his voice. He had to sound convincing; if Molly found out he was faking his illness, the whole operation would be rendered useless. Molly Hooper wasn't really known for her theatrics but she was excellent at keeping a secret; she had, after all, helped him fake his suicide. It was better to keep her in the dark. Just this once.<br>"I came over as soon as I could; what's happened? What do you need?" Sherlock propped himself up so he could see Molly's face. She eyed him apprehensively as he swallowed hard.  
>"I need you to go and get help..." He winced a little and put his hand on his hard, clenching at it to make it more believable.<br>"And you couldn't just call an ambulance?" Sherlock shook his head imploringly, not able to resist a touch of drama.  
>"Doctors won't be any good," Sherlock reasoned, "We need a planter... A gardener. The man I need... He can only be reached at six..." He was marvellous at playing the dying detective.<br>"What's his number? I can call him if you like...?" Molly looked at the time. There was still a few minutes. Looking around for any plants that could have poisoned him, Molly began shifting items and did not appear to hear when Sherlock told her not to touch his things. She came across an elegant black and white ivory box with a sliding lid and before she touched it, Sherlock began to panic.  
>"Molly do not touch my things," he almost said in his regular voice; a lapse in his illness. Instantly, she stepped away from it and looked at the digital clock on his bedside table. Rolling her eyes, Molly turned towards the door.<br>"I'm making a phone call." As she was about to turn the handle, Sherlock leapt out of his bed and closed the door. He looked at her dead in the eyes.  
>"Please will you do this for me?" Molly nodded and tried to check his temperature but he backed away.<br>"I'm highly contagious... I..." Sherlock looked around almost deliriously as he climbed back into his bed. Molly sat down and stared at Sherlock and looked out of the corner of her eye towards the digital clock.  
>"Sherlock, why did you have to...?" He wanted to tell Molly why it was so important that he had to fake his death and why it was so important to keep John in the dark but he couldn't. He had a network to dismantle.<br>"His name is Culverton Smith and this is his address." Sherlock handed her a piece of paper. He coughed fiercely. Molly nodded. "He doesn't have a phone; landline or mobile." He struggled to get the words out, which was a form of imploring her to do as he said. Snatching the paper up, she went to walk out the door. "Molly... He doesn't particularly like me because I told him he killed his nephew by inflicting the same disease that I have..." Sherlock's eyelids began to droop and Molly went out in a hurry. A few moments later, he text her and told her that it would be best if Smith and herself arrived separately. It would suit his purposes better.  
>"He said he would, after some persuasion." Molly added that last bit darkly. "He's on his way." Sherlock smiled slightly, turning over to reapply the Vaseline to make him look more feverish.<br>"Molly, would you mind hiding in my closet? I don't want you to see him..." he shook his head and then laughed looking frantically across the room.

When Culverton Smith arrived, he saw Sherlock in his bed. Eyeing Sherlock with his menacing grey eyes, Smith smiled cruelly.  
>"Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes. It <em>is<em> a shame you have come down that illness. My dear old nephew..."  
>"Of whom you killed," Sherlock coughed as he made his eyelids droop.<br>"Yes. Victor Smith; tragic death that one; same illness as you it would seem." He turned around to pocket the small ivory box, "A simple spring, would you believe? I killed him with just a simple spring and there was not a thing he could do. Much like you, Mr. Holmes." The small man sat down and opted to watch Sherlock die. Sherlock hit send on his phone under the blanket, instructing Inspector Morton, the man who stood in for Lestrade while he was suspended, to enter and arrest the man.  
>"The confessed murderer of Victor Smith," Sherlock smiled, sitting up from his bed.<br>"You have no evidence," Smith arrogantly pointed out, spitting on the floor almost as Inspector Morton took him by the wrists and restrained him, "No witnesses. This won't hold up in court." Sherlock couldn't help smiling when he said that.  
>"Molly, we're finished here," Molly Hooper emerged from the closet and after the formalities, Morton took him away.<p>

Sherlock put the ivory box back on his chest of drawers.  
>"Sherlock..." Molly began, "Why couldn't you just...?" Molly shook the thought off. Sherlock shook his head and guessed the direction of her thoughts but she wasn't upset. Why wasn't she upset that he had lied to her?<br>"You had to believe I was terminally ill..." Sherlock felt the need to explain himself but Molly shook her head.  
>"I wondered why your home smelt of Belladonna. The beeswax was a nice touch." Sherlock had to blink. "I know malingers when I see them, Sherlock." She was a pathologist; of course she knew. She always knew. He wanted to thank her but he didn't know how.<p>

He closed the door and walked over to his box again.  
>"Molly," he wiped his face with the scarf that was draped across the drawers, "This box... It's made from the finest ivory; only attainable in the depths of Asia..." His fingers traced the top of the box before he took it in his hands. He offered to her and she took it in both of her hands carefully. "I would like you to have it," she looked at him quizzically, trying to read the expression in his eyes. "Keep it safe for me." She nodded. Although Sherlock knew that this did not even come close to the thanks that Molly deserved for everything she had done, it was a start. She was one of the most important people in his life and he hoped she always would be. "Thank you." She simply nodded.<br>"Is this goodbye then?" Sherlock nodded solemnly.  
>"My flight leaves in two hours."<br>"Why can't you just tell me where you're going...?" Sherlock shook his head.  
>"Goodbye, Molly Hooper." He kissed her on the lips before he slipped out of Baker Street for god only knew how long and into one of his brother's black cars.<p>

That box meant the world to Sherlock. It was a symbol of his friendship with Molly, a symbol of just how much he cared for her and how she was the one who counted; the one who would do anything for him, including lying to people for two years even though it hurt them and it went against everything in her kind nature. So, why would Mycroft take it? The Smith case was resolved. He didn't need the evidence anymore. He called his brother but it went straight to voicemail. Something was not right with this equation. It didn't add up. Why would Moriarty and his companion lead them to Mycroft? The only reason Sherlock could think of was because Moriarty needed time. Time for what, Sherlock didn't know, but he intended to find out.


	16. Chapter 16

Abigail Holmes had been spending most of her time in her mind palace, unconcerned with means of escape. Instead she lay on a bed trying to figure out who was doing this and why. The bed was comfortable now that the brown eyed woman took her to a hotel but even their sudden change in location was not the problem here.

Around a small oak table, Abigail sat with her suspects; Mary Watson, Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes. They all smiled at her, waiting for her to speak.

"Mary. Clever Mary Watson," She looked into her best friend's mother's eyes. "Why would you want Sherlock Holmes to break?" Abigail considered all of the options and what was important to Mary the intelligence agent? Abigail figured she was something like that because she did marry John, an adrenaline junkie, whose best friend was a 'sociopath', so it wasn't exactly a giant leap to know that despite her domesticated exterior she loved danger herself. John was important to her and so was Agatha. She would do anything to keep them safe, keep them from hurting. Unless there was something threatening them and she was being blackmailed to take down Sherlock. That being said, Sherlock meant too much to John for Mary to do anything to him. Words appeared around Mary; jealous? Family under threat...? Abigail shook her head. The very notion was pathetic. She was grasping at straws. Mary got up from the table, smiled at Abigail and disappeared out of the small chamber in the Inveraray Castle. The Woman; with her shining blue eyes and her raven black hair, what could she possibly want with Sherlock? There was a number of things. Abigail had discovered upon meeting Irene that she would do anything that meant there was something in it for her. It was likely someone offered her a large sum of money because there was no immediate gain in breaking Sherlock Holmes. She was the woman who Sherlock loved. He wasn't in love with her; it was the fact that she surprised him and she wasn't as easy to figure out like everyone else. It wouldn't be hard to break him when he had that much respect for her. Who would be paying her? That was a question for later. Irene froze and went black and white; that was what happened to Abigail's suspended thoughts. There was only one suspect left.

"Uncle Mycroft," She began. The man stared at her disapprovingly, as he normally did. This man, this particular man, really did not like Sherlock, or rather did not like Sherlock being distracted and that's all she and Molly were; distractions. Surely that wouldn't be enough to warrant a kidnapping. It was one thing to steal his most valued possession - the ivory box that sat on the mantelpiece - but to kidnap his daughter? It looked unlikely but only a select few who knew about the box; Molly, Mycroft, Mary, John and Abigail herself. Since Mary, John and Molly were out of the equation that only left Mycroft. He did leave the party early and he did know exactly where the box was located... The more evidence Abigail interpreted, the more probable it was becoming. She would deal with this in one of the only ways she knew how. Manipulation.

Opening her eyes, it took Abigail a few seconds to come to grips with her new location. The hotel looked like the inside of Buckingham Palace, with its golden chandeliers, cream coloured wallpaper and regal paintings.

"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout..." The brown eyed woman chanted absently in all her Irish glory before her phone began to ring. She argued with the person on the other end, reminding them of the sum of money they promised. There was silence for a moment before the door opened. If Abigail wore the coat Sherlock had made her pack, her gun would have come in handy. She never let on that she carried a gun; even when Sherlock lined her coat with cigarettes, he had no idea - or, if he did, he certainly didn't say anything. The person who entered the room hung up his phone and looked down at her. Mycroft. There was no need to investigate any more.

"Myc..." She whispered pouring as much hurt into her voice as possible, even though she knew Mycroft was a sociopath. She had no idea if that woman was.

"Janine, I would invite you to please leave the room; I must have words with our guest." Mycroft held out £100 and the woman named Janine took it gladly as she exited the room.

"Why are you doing this?" Abigail asked in all seriousness, sparing him the betrayed family member routine.

"To simply test our good Sherlock Holmes." She rolled her eyes at his diplomacy.

"Nope," she replied, "Why are you doing this?" Mycroft simply took a seat at the small table, leaning his umbrella against the table leg.

"You are a distraction and..." Abigail wasn't buying it.

"Try again. Try something along the lines of James Moriarty." Mycroft grew incredulous. "What did he threaten this time?" Abigail put the pieces together as she spoke. Of course Moriarty was the mastermind - but the question remained. What was Mycroft's motive? Irene's would be money or even government protection, Janine's was obviously money but what was Mycroft's? He did not need money and he had no-one he really cared about... Then it hit her. She was missing the obvious; Mycroft's first priority was the security of the British nation and James Moriarty was the most dangerous criminal mind the world had ever seen. Of course he would have to comply.

"Abigail Hooper, this is a dangerous game you are playing." He told her. He never treated her like a Holmes; except when she blackmailed him into telling her Sherlock's life story and even then he was guarded. But there was certainly nothing wrong with being a Hooper. Her mother was the cleverest woman she knew - apart from her grandmother.

"Mycroft," She implored, making Mycroft flinch almost. She could do the death glare almost as good as her mother. She had needed it a lot lately. "Tell. Me." Abigail stood up and began pacing in the kitchen. "I've got all day." She told him, pocketing a steak knife.

"Moriarty and I had a deal. I give him Sherlock and he returns a laptop upon which the security of the United Kingdom." Suddenly, Mycroft felt a cold sharp sensation at the side of his neck. "Mycroft. This, right here, is a main artery and it runs all the way from your neck to your cold heart. You're a smart man; you know what happens when arteries are severed. Do I have your attention?" Mycroft simply laughed.

"You couldn't do that, Miss. Hooper." She pressed the knife harder and drew a tiny bit of blood. "Now, _Uncle_ Mycroft. Who else is helping Moriarty?" She didn't anticipate this to escalate to death threats; it wasn't her style but Mycroft was a sociopath. He valued his life above everything.

"There are seven of us," he told her calmly. "Janine and I are the only ones you need to concern yourself with."

"Who are the others?" Abigail could feel her patience wearing thin as she yelled at her uncle.

"You tell me." Abigail pocketed the knife again and let Mycroft be. "Good evening." With that, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and walked out of the room. There were seven. Abigail thought back to the fairytales her mother read to her as a child. There was one evil queen and seven people who looked after a princess. These seven people were trying to keep the princess alive. Snow White. Abigail racked her brain for five other suspects. Irene was definitely back in this fold. It was time she had dinner with The Woman.


	17. Chapter 17

Abigail slunk over to the suitcase tucked under the bed. It would be a while before the Irish woman named Janine came back. She took out a sleek black lacy dress that was too short lengthwise and completely figure hugging up to the bust, where it was miles too big. Silently Abigail cursed her mother's genetic flat chest as she went digging for a ribbon to compensate. When she found one, she wrapped it around her and went digging further in Janine's trunk. This time for makeup and shoes.  
>br By the time Abigail had finished raiding her kidnapper's trunk, she looked years older; much more mature. She had decided to wear her hair down, which worked to her advantage. It was curlier these days which made it look better. Irene Adler would be /She began to walk downstairs. If Irene was in on this, that would be her primary /Sure enough, at a table, sitting alone in that haughty way of hers, with her blood red lipstick and green dress, was Irene. She smiled at Abigail as she descended the last staircase. br /"Miss Adler, so lovely to see you again." Abigail began as the waiter began to pour her a glass of red wine. Irene's eyes narrowed and an amused smile crossed her lips. br /"Oh, Miss Holmes, if you weren't so young, I would have you in the middle of this restaurant." Irene continued drinking her wine as if that was a passing remark about the weather. br /"Since when are you bound by morals?" Abigail retorted, mirroring Irene's actions. br /"Is that an invitation?"  
>Irene raised an eyebrow. br "Not at all. I came here to talk to you about James Moriarty." br /"And what makes you think I would tell you anything?" Abigail smiled,  
>knowing Irene would have that sort of reaction. br "I don't expect you to. I am famished, aren't you?" They both ate their dinner in a comfortable silence. br /"I heard you were captured," Irene began before slowly placing her glass on the table. br /"Still am - by the king himself," Abigail shrugged, as she stabbed her steak with alarming precision. br /"You really are your father's daughter," she laughed cruelly, not leaving space for elaboration. "I have no part in it this time, Miss. Holmes. He did offer but I have bigger fish to fry." br /"Then perhaps you might be able to help me." Irene shook her head.  
>br "Isn't it past your bed time?" Abigail rolled her eyes and Irene finished her meal. br /"At least let Sherlock know I am alive," Abigail murmured in the best frightened, timid and desperate voice she could muster. br /"Goodnight, Miss. Holmes." With a smile, Irene Adler stood up and began to turn away. As the domineering beauty walked away, Abigail felt a smile creeping across her lips. It had worked. Irene would tell Sherlock. The way she stood and the way something in her eyes shifted at her father's name gave her away. It was not quite what she had set out to accomplish but it was something. Now, it would be a game of investigating and waiting.  
>br * * * * *br /Sherlock sat awake with Molly at his side, who was anxiously biting her bottom lip raw,  
>not knowing if Abigail was dead or alive. He had just sat for days and had not uttered a single word. He was trying to think of a way to lure Moriarty, the incy wincy spider, to the top of the water spout so to speak. Moriarty didn't come out to play very often, similarly to Sherlock. The things that brought him out had to be interesting or distinctly Moriarty. He wondered if the same was true for Moriarty himself. There was only one way to prove that wonder. There had to be an event so big that Moriarty wouldn't miss. Preferably something that didn't involve murder... He scoured his mind palace, searching for things that lured him out in the past but couldn't think of anything monumental. As the room came back into focus, his eyes lingered on a photo frame, there John, Mary, Mary's convenient friend Janine and Sherlock. A wedding had brought him out so perhaps it would be the same for Moriarty. There was one way to find out.<br>Sherlock Holmes had to marry Molly Hooper. 


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock was expecting a more incredulous reaction when he told his best friend the idea but then,  
>this was the man who got engaged to break into an office. br "You're actually marrying Molly Hooper, though?"  
>John asked once he allowed himself a moment to process the new information. Sherlock nodded once in confirmation; why did John never take things at face value? Probably because everyone he had ever loved lied to him in one way or another about something important.<br>Even Sherlock had but he'd apologised for that so many times, knowing he'd never make up for it. "Wow. Sherlock Holmes getting married." Even though Sherlock explained that it was to get their daughter back, John still was amazed that there would be someone, much less an independent woman like Molly Hooper, who would be daring enough to say yes. "Have you asked her yet?"  
>Sherlock shook his head. br "I don't need to."  
>Sherlock thought of his daughter in that moment. One day, she had been sitting on a chair, reading about combustion while he picked up a book on human nature. Abigail's brown hair shone in the sunlight of the room that Sherlock named the Baker Street library as she did not look up at her father. br "Why haven't you proposed to mum yet?" Sherlock had been caught a little off guard by the question. br /"You know how I feel about marriage." br / it is completely pointless but it's really important to Molly." Sherlock was perplexed. Why would she not have said something? br /"Did she say something to you?" He kept his voice even and cautious. br / it's just something I noticed is all." Abigail didn't look up from her book at all but Sherlock was dumbfounded. How did she see something before he did? He had known Molly longer. He had shrugged it off and continued with his book. This was for Abigail; plain and simple. Despite her striking resemblance to him in the pursuit of knowledge and logic,  
>she was a romantic and she, too, wanted to see her parents married.<br>It also helped that it was likely to get Moriarty's attention. "But I will," Sherlock added aloud not letting on his thoughts.  
>br "Well, have you chosen a place to do it?"  
>Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend. Being so disgustingly human was tedious; it required copious amounts of effort for no reason.<br>Instead of replying, Sherlock simply nodded, knowing that John meant a restaurant when Sherlock intended to ask her in their home. br /"Would you be my best man?" As if he had to ask.  
>John smiled happily at the offer and accepted. Molly finished early on Tuesday nights. Tonight would be the perfect opportunity. br After Sherlock had told John the rest of the plan, John scowled. Sherlock could almost hear John's voice in his mind; she is your friend, Sherlock and the mother of your child and she is going to think you are being sincere. But that was the point. This whole thing was sincere. Every last moment - all except the pretentious ceremony that people had to witness to make it seem /When Molly got home, Sherlock heard her car pull up outside.  
>He would wait for her to say hello to the cat that he had opted to get rid off but couldn't because Molly was too stubborn. He lingered in his room, staring at a small box made from ebony velvet. He had to be careful about the way he approached this. A conversation with his daughter not so long ago had sprung to his mind. He had told her she knows how to be human but often chooses not to and she had retorted that that was a mirror of himself and Sherlock knew that. It was time to be human. Just this once. br "Sherlock, are you here?" She called and Sherlock pocketed the box and emerged out of his room. "I spoke to Gr... Lestrade today and he thinks he's found a lead." Sherlock didn't want her trust in him to diminish so he did not tell her that it was he who had told Lestrade that Mycroft was in on it as well as an as yet unidentified woman and that it was likely to be tied to a fairytale. Instead, he just let a relieved smile cross his face. br /That night, Molly ate her dinner in silence while Sherlock sat at the end of the table,  
>the box burning a hole in his pocket. br "Sherlock,  
>this is ridiculous. You have got to eat." br "I'm on a case," Sherlock told her, trying not to be dismissive. She rolled her eyes and Sherlock stood up from the table and joined Molly at the other end. br /"Molly Hooper,"  
>Sherlock pulled the box from his jacket pocket. She clasped a hand to her mouth. He opened the box and waited for her response. He couldn't bring himself to ask the question. That would be too insincere and he wanted to be nothing but honest with Molly. She placed the ring on her finger and there was something glistening her eyes that almost looked like tears. Sherlock smiled at her response and she hugged It was official. Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were engaged. 


	19. Chapter 19

Over the next three days, Molly began planning everything and,as methodical as a pathologist should be, she organised everything right down to the cake but Sherlock knew the elation was wearing off and the doubt was starting to creep in.

"Sherlock," Molly asked, standing in front of Sherlock, looking thoughtfully at the lilac diamond ring, "Why are you doing this?" Sherlock looked perplexed; he wasn't acting stranger than usual.

"Doing what?"

"Marrying me. You don't believe in marriage." That much was true but he did not tell her that it was to get their daughter back. That was only half of the reason. The other half was so that he could give Molly something she wanted. She had always been so patient and accepting of him and now it was his turn to do the same.

"No," he told her, "I don't believe in marriage but you do," he placed a kiss on her cheek, "and I believe in you." She smiled and locked him in a tight embrace. They stood for a moment in silence with Sherlock slightly more tense than usual. Molly was sobbing at this point. She had figured it out. Of course she had. Molly Hooper was far from stupid.

"I want her back too," she whispered sadly into Sherlock's shoulder. He was going to pull out of her embrace to ask her what gave him away but he thought better of it. Instead, he stood there and calculated. He calculated Molly's reaction to it afterwards. He didn't expect it to be good.

"Molly," again, Sherlock felt the need to explain himself but Molly didn't seem to need him too.

"Sherlock," she matched his tone of voice perfectly and looked directly into his eyes. He gazed at her for a moment before the heavy silence was broken by an erotic moan from the phone that sat on the couch. Molly tried to hide her shock but Sherlock could read her all too well. He walked over to it entered his passcode and froze. There, on his phone, was a picture from The Woman.

Abigail Holmes was sitting at a table in a dress that was too big for her and had a glass of red wine in her hand.

It took a moment for Sherlock to identify the address and in the second he did, he received another message. Let's have dinner.

"Molly," Sherlock began, not looking up from his phone, "I'm going out. Don't wait up."

"Where...?" Before Molly had a chance to finish her question, Sherlock was on the phone.

"John, meet me at Baker Street. We have a dinner date. The game is on." He hung the phone up and picked up his lilac scarf and pulled his collar up before walking out of the house with almost an amused smile on his lips.

When John met Sherlock at Baker street, John had just come from work as evident by his baggy jeans and dark green jacket.

"Sherlock?" John asked when he got out of his car. Sherlock began walking down the road, willing John to follow.

"Come with me. We're going to go and have dinner with The Woman." Waving down a cab, he heard John's annoyed voice but he didn't hear the words. It was probably something along the lines of 'I have a car.'

"Yes and Mycroft has eyes everywhere." Sherlock said anyway as he got into the car. Instructing the driver a specific route, Sherlock felt his whole body tense. Where they were going would definitely make people speculate about John's orientation. It didn't matter to Sherlock what people thought of him but his best friend, the quaint Doctor Watson, was very conscious of other people's opinions and John's potential discomfort made him, too, feel uncomfortable. It was in a hushed tone that Sherlock told the driver and John just rolled his eyes as how cryptic Sherlock was being.

It was dark outside when they got to the grand hotel that was in the middle of nowhere. That seemed to be a preference of Moriarty and his minions as of late. Maybe this game, being a more personal one, warranted minimal limelight. The Woman was definitely a minion of Moriarty's. How would she have obtained a picture of the captured teenager if she wasn't in on it? She never went anywhere that wasn't classy so this grand eight story resort with distinctly Roman influenced architecture definitely fit the profile.

When they got inside, Sherlock went to go into the dining area but a young man at reception stopped him.

"Hello, Sir; are you a guest here?" He asked. Sherlock sized him up. A nineteen year old, with tinted eyebrows, slight mascara, perfectly styled hair and thick rimmed glasses to make his eyes stand out. His anxious blue eyes said he was new here, so Sherlock worked that to his advantage.

"Hi, yes. The name is Mycroft Holmes." The boy looked it up on his computer, nodded and looked up at John.

"And your partner...?" Sherlock could see John about to state that he wasn't gay but that would blow the cover. He shot John an apprehensive look and John rolled his eyes.

"I'm Greg," the boy nodded but did not do anything else to the computer.

"Go right in." Sherlock thanked him and rolled his eyes as he turned his back.

"Greg? Who is...?" Sherlock dismissed the thought as he scanned the area for a very distinctive woman.

She stood pinning a woman to the wall close to a staircase and looked to be whispering in her ear. John hated the Woman, although Sherlock could never fathom why exactly. Striding towards her, Sherlock disregarded the stares he got from the other patrons having dinner. Turning around to face him, Irene Adler wrapped her hand around his neck and kissed him passionately before smiling.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Holmes." She smiled deviously afterward and then looked to John, "Hello, Doctor Watson. Let's have dinner."


	20. Chapter 20

It was dark; dark as unconscious sleep. Underneath her Doc Martens was as cold as ice. They had moved her again. As she went to stand up, it felt like a thousand shards of glass had pierced the very bones of her ankles and so she slid back onto the cold floor. Why did they keep moving her? What was wrong with the hotel?

"I don't know what Moriarty intends to do with you," Mycroft began coolly, "But it must be important since you're not to be seen by anybody outside this operation. Tell me; how did you come to know Irene Adler?" Abigail froze and not just because of the paralytic. Nothing got past Mycroft.

"She's my biological mother; I think I have a right." Abigail thought this tactic would work. It would confuse Mycroft and buy her time while he conferred with his other 'dwarfs' as Abigail called them. When Mycroft didn't say anything in reply, she knew she fooled him. Or, she thought she had.

"That was very clever, Abigail. I know you're not Miss. Adler's daughter. Now, answer the question." Abigail had a thousand ideas circulating in her head at that point to get Mycroft to leave so she could assess the new situation.

"Look at me, Mycroft. Really look at me." He must have been sitting on a chair because she heard something move in the dark as his footsteps began. He turned on the lights and they were back in that familiar fluorescently lit room, only this time, Abigail was chained to the wall. This had been more than she had dared to hope for. She knew this room. She had spent four days in this room,without sleep, planning out escape routes and figuring out where the cameras were. It was now a room in her mind palace. He got down to her level and examined her face. Trying to kick him, she avoided his eyes. Her legs were slow and numb and she was unsuccessful. She would try words again. "What do you see?" She began to fade in and out of consciousness as time passed by. "Think about it." It was then Abigail lost consciousness but rather than her mind going completely black, memories flashed before her.

"Must you always dress in lilac, Abby? I think you have an unhealthy obsession." Agatha had come to Abigail's house to get ready for the junior ball and was wearing a modest white dress, whereas Abigail wore a strapless lilac dress that, although had a puffy skirt to it, ended just above the knee - which was far too revealing for Sherlock's standards. Abigail had always been the more outspoken of the two. Mary and Molly called them Snow White and Rose Red when they were children as they grew up, the truer it became. Abigail said the things Agatha was thinking while Agatha would do just that; think. Molly was fussing and trying to get them to take a photo when there was a knock at the door.

"Oh, that will be their dates," Molly whispered excitedly as she hurried to answer it.

At the door stood two young gentlemen; one was tall, with a very well fitted suit, with black hair and the other, blonde with green eyes and an equally dapper suit. Molly invited them in and the dark haired one wandered over to Abigail, telling her how beautiful she looked and she felt her cheeks flush. He wrapped his hand around her waist and Sherlock's head snapped up from his book.

"What are your names?" Sherlock didn't smile; he just stared intensely, with a look of almost resentment, at the dark-haired boy.

"I'm Jackson Moran." In that moment, Abigail knew what her father was doing and despite her non-verbal cues to tell him to stop, he continued to. He started his deductions. She internalised them just so she knew when to stop him but she had been too late. Sherlock was already saying them aloud. "You are Irish and come from an affluent family, if not, then you certainly know an affluent person, judging by the brand of your suit; distinctly Westwood. You were abused as a child and self-harmed, as evident by your posture and the small scars on the insides of your wrists and you obviously grew up idealizing a father figure with a twisted sense of right and wrong by the condoms in the lining of your jacket, implying that you are intending to take advantage of an innocent girl." Abigail rolled her eyes.

"Thanks, dad," she told him sarcastically, "for embarrassing my date."

"Was I right?" Sherlock asked the boy, not taking his eyes off him.

"Yes, you were. About almost everything. I do not intend to take advantage of your daughter." Jackson's expression turned dark. "And my father is far from affluent." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, willing for him to elaborate. "My Uncle Jim bought me this suit. He's the affluent one." Sherlock was frozen in his chair. "He fixes things." Sherlock looked dumbfounded and Abigail watched him choose his words carefully.

"Any later than ten..." Sherlock began but Molly cut him off.

"We better hear from any of you. Now, stand right there." Molly pointed to the mantelpiece and the four teenagers grouped together as Molly took what seemed like a thousand photos. "Okay, now go have fun." They couldn't get out of the house fast enough especially Agatha's date who was next on the interrogation list. That night had been a disaster. Jackson did make inappropriate advances towards Abigail, as her father predicted. She punched him and broke his nose and went home to cry in her room.

The intensity of those raw emotions made her eyelids flutter as she grew more conscious of her surroundings. Mycroft was the only figure her blurry eyes could make out and she just smiled weakly.

"Field work isn't your forte, Uncle Myc," but she got no response as a number of people began to close in on her.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock could see John's discomfort as Irene tossed flirtatious comments towards his best friend but he disregarded them. He was good at blocking Irene's innuendos.

"Abigail Hooper; where is she?"

"She seemed to think she was a Holmes. Do you...?" She was cut off when her phone rang. Sherlock allowed her to answer it, surveying the room for possible places his daughter might be. The photograph was taken here so Abigail had a be here or at least somewhere near here. "I have to go." Irene Adler said abruptly as she hung up the phone and stood up. Sherlock stood up too and she walked past him whispering. "She's alive." That was when she disappeared out of the hotel. The person on the other end had to be someone who was associated with Moriarty if not Moriarty himself. John shook his head, uttering how useless the whole encounter had been. Only, it was a far cry from useless in Sherlock's eyes.

Irene wore a black corset and a short skirt with thigh high stockings with a garter but rather than sitting straight as the corset intended, she leaned towards the right which was a non-verbal inclination towards where they were keeping Abigail. That meant they were still in the hotel. They just had to find out where.

"John, we have to stay here." John gave Sherlock an incredulous look even though he knew Sherlock didn't make those kind of jokes. Sherlock walked up to the boy at the register and told him he'd lost his key card as earnestly as he could muster. The boy nodded sympathetically and handed him a new one. He was a terrible bellboy. When Sherlock navigated himself enough to find the lift, he tried to glance over at John, just to see how he was coping with all of this. John got his phone out and texted Mary of their plans presumably. Sherlock stood, wondering where Abigail would be and then something cut into his thoughts. Lift music. After a solo of violin in G minor, a voice chimed in; a Russian woman.

"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout and down came the rain and washed the spider out. Then out came the sun and dried up all the rain then the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again." Sherlock stopped in his tracks before the lift stopped altogether. He could see John's panic about being in such a small place for so long. Any loud noises would send him back to Afghanistan and so distractions were needed. Sherlock pressed the help button and told the person the lift just stopped and then he sat down, inviting John to do the same.

"I haven't the faintest as to how a wedding works, John." Sherlock smiled only half lying.

"It's easy; you just follow the movies... The vows." John shook his head and sat down beside his friend. "I'll help you when you need," John knew Sherlock hated anything to do with weddings. Sherlock was anxious about what John was thinking in that moment and he wasn't particularly good at being human as to console his PTSD which never seemed to be present in the months before Sherlock faked his suicide but seemed to regenerate after living in the suburbs. Something Sherlock didn't understand was that this was a dangerous situation, something John was acclimatised to, and it presented itself.

"John, why...?" Before Sherlock had a chance to finish his sentence, the lights cut out.

"Sherlock Holmes," a voice clearly o a voice changer said over the lift intercom, "You've gone soft in your old age. If you want your daughter to live, you must listen carefully." The screen generally told which floor someone was on went black for a second and then it changed to a view of a fluorescently lit room. Inside was Abigail but Sherlock did not flinch. She looked like she had been drugged. Somebody, a figure whom Sherlock recognised but could not put his finger on, grabbed her by the throat and slid her against the wall. Suddenly, Moriarty walked into the frame in a grey tuxedo with his signature fox pin. He smiled directly into the camera. Now, everything else was blurry but Abigail was still being suffocated, held against the wall.

"Did you miss me?" he smiled happily, directly into the camera. "I certainly missed you. I even wrote you a poem." He smiled wider as he began his verse. "Abby's coat is red and her eyes are blue. Oh, my dear Sherlock what happened to you? You faked your own death but when you fell, you didn't know I faked mine as well." Sherlock hated Moriarty's childlike adoration for riddles and jokes but he was brilliant, even Sherlock couldn't deny that. "You have two days before the poison will spread; hurry Sherlock or your daughter is dead." The screen faded out but Sherlock wasn't sure how to react. John stood dumbfounded as well as the elevator started to work again. The two said nothing as they unlocked the door to Mycroft's hotel room. It was a dangerous operation and Abigail was caught in the crossfire.


	22. Chapter 22

In her mind palace, Abigail sat in the room again; the chamber with the round table with a number of people surrounding her.

"Dwarfs," Abigail muttered. She knew the motives for Janine and Mycroft who were smiling odiously, despite them being black and white. "There are five more of you... Who are you?" She looked around at the other people. One was a very muscular Russian man, with long hair and thick lips. His hands were soft though so perhaps he was a gardener of sorts. Another was a ginger haired woman with a re-hemmed pencil skirt and a real blouse under a blazer that was covered in ink from a press. A journalist then. The last one was an older man, perhaps in his late thirties. He had black hair and a stubble flecked with grey. He only wore sunglasses and a black tuxedo. An Irish gentlemen from the way his chilling deep voice sang of the incy wincy spider. "Why are there two of you missing?" Abigail asked them, "Who are the others?" Mycroft, in black and white, looked over at the door. Slowly walking in was the blonde Mrs. Mary Elizabeth Watson. She came and sat down at the table. "Mary, go away. You're not a suspect."

"Why not?" The ginger haired journalist asked in her cockney English accent. Her father pulled up a chair opposite her.

"Think, Abigail. She married an adrenaline junkie, her best friend investigates corpses and her daughter is an introvert who..."

"Careful, Sherlock..." Abigail warned threateningly. She hated it when Sherlock criticised Agatha. He did it frequently, even in her mind palace. Not because Abigail thought these things but she knew what her father thought of her. Mary sat at the table, smiling at Abigail in her cute blue blouse and Abigail shook her head. No. Mary is not one of them. Despite Abigail's declining of this theory, Mary remained in the room. The man in the glasses took them off and looked up at her. She thought she saw a hint of Jackson Moran... Jackson appeared where Sherlock sat. Abigail thrust her eyes back and forth from this man to Jackson. This man was Sebastian Moran.

"My uncle Jim's the affluent one... He fixes things." Jackson said as he left the room.

"Sebastian Moran... The right hand man. I don't need a motive for you because you're in love with James Moriarty. Love is a vicious motivator."

"You're asking the wrong questions, Abigail." Her mother chastised as she walked into the room and stood behind Mary. "It's not about who these people are."

"She's right, Abigail. What are the right questions?" Her father was back sitting opposite her, staring at her with his blue eyes boring into her own. Abigail left the room and went exploring around the Ivenary Castle to find the right questions. When they finally came to her, she appeared back in the room again.

"What is Moriarty planning to do? Why do you people have to keep me alive but can still torture me?" Sherlock nodded his head slowly. "What is this good old-fashioned villain trying to achieve?" Before she had a chance to answer her own question, consciousness struck her with full force in the face. Janine had slapped her.

"Wake up," she whispered almost tenderly, "We've got a wedding to prepare for." A wedding? Something wasn't right. Moriarty gives her freedom to roam around a hotel but then chains her up for two days in the basement of said hotel for talking to an outsider whom he must have threatened by now and now, he was making her go to a wedding. There was something suspicious going on. That was to say the least. There was only one wedding Moriarty would deem so important that his whole operation would be jeopardised. Sherlock was marrying Molly. Part of Abigail wanted to jump for joy, another wanted to laugh at the prospect of Sherlock fumbling over his vows but instead, the biggest part of her was the part that filled her eyes with tears and her heart with sadness. It wasn't because she would never get to see her mother happy in her ivory dress or fussing about every little detail. It wasn't that she would never get to see her mother look adoringly into Sherlock's eyes as he professed his love for her. It wasn't even the she would never get to argue against being a bridesmaid. That was not the worst part. The worst part was that she would get to see it. She would get to see her mother marry her father. But it would be because of her, she knew. They were only getting married to lure Moriarty out so they could get her back. It would be hollow and even though it meant they had a chance at getting her back, Abigail knew how much it meant to Molly. It meant a lot to Abigail too; to see her parents bound in such a way would be the nicest thing in the world. The fact that Abigail would attend the wedding and watch it happen for that reason killed her inside. She would never be able to tell her mother what she had always wanted to tell her the day Sherlock married her.

Tears ran down her face freely now because she felt numb with guilt and anguish. What kind of daughter was she? She was smart. Why would she let herself get kidnapped? Mycroft had called her useless her whole life. She remembered and was starting to believe it.

"Abigail," Janine said cruelly, "If you are going to attend this wedding you need to look presentable." Abigail shook her head and covered her ears as she could hear nothing but Mycroft's voice telling her how useless she was. It echoed in her head despite Janine trying to get her to co-operate. Abigail would give anything to be back with her mother and father. Anything at all, just to be home again.


	23. Chapter 23

_John's character inaccuracy in this scene is completely and utterly stupid and will be edited at a later date. *Mycroft voice* Apologies._

"Sherlock, you're getting married in a week and you're staying in a hotel."

"It's for a case, John," Sherlock reminded him. John just nodded impatiently.

"Yeah, which is what this wedding is for, so you have to make it believable." Sherlock rolled his eyes. He hated it when John was right. Although it rarely happened, it still got on Sherlock's nerves. Sherlock turned to his best man.

"I haven't..."

"I know; you haven't the faintest idea on how to do it, so we'll start with the basics shall we?" John grabbed the pen and paper from the bench top. "What is Molly Hooper to you?" Sherlock looked perplexed and uncomfortable.

"She's my... Molly." Sherlock didn't know any other ways to describe her. That was it. She was his beautiful, intelligent, shy Molly. John shook his head as he wrote things down. "What are you doing...?"

"If you aren't going to cooperate, I'll do it myself." Sherlock didn't say anything to that. Instead he looked around the hotel room. There was a steak knife on the floor with dry blood encrusted on the tip of the blade. It wasn't enough blood to kill a person, or even wound them. This was a threat; someone threatened somebody in this room about something. Mycroft had been in here, that was all Sherlock had to go on and field work was never Mycroft's area. So he must have been the one being threatened. He thought of Abigail; she could have done it but where would she be now because of it?

"Here, Sherlock." John grumbled after a few moments. Sherlock turned out of his deep thought and took the paper from John uttering something of a thank you. Sherlock read through it and his eyebrows knitted together.

"Molly's not the sun. She isn't a big ball of..."

"No but you move around her like the earth. It's a metaphor." Sherlock looked perplexed. "Oh, not this again. How do you keep forgetting that the earth... Never mind. It's a metaphor, that's all. A metaphor." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Fine. We'll keep it. I don't have to like it. I don't know why you didn't let me download the ones on the internet." That last bit was muttered and probably inaudible to John. Sherlock continued reading the rest and they seemed like they'd been said a thousand times before but it was the only plan he had. John had done this before. He knew what he was doing. Sherlock didn't. He didn't like not knowing. "Thank you, John."

"What was that? I didn't hear you." John knew exactly what he'd said.

"I'm not saying it again." John yawned. It was well into the small liminal hours of the morning before he asked Sherlock about the leads on Abigail but before he had a chance to finish, Sherlock stopped him. "Take the bed, John."

"How are you going to sleep?" John asked, trying to fathom how Sherlock would fit on that tiny couch.

"The same way you intended. Not at all." John looked worried even though Sherlock could only see him from the the corner of his eye. John shook his head.

"You have to sleep, Sherlock. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Doctor Watson." John fell asleep almost instantly on top of the covers. Sherlock folded one half of them over him as he picked up the steak knife from the ground. This could not have been more than two days old. Where would Mycroft go?

"Sherlock," Abigail's voice told him, "You're asking the wrong questions. It doesn't matter where Mycroft is."

"Why?" Sherlock asked as his daughter took a seat in front of him in the courtroom where Moriarty had been found not guilty before he faked his death.

"You tell me," Sherlock wracked his brain, "Who is the incy wincy spider?"

"Mor..." Sherlock sat down in front of his daughter who had a lilac scarf on, similar to his own. "Where would Moriarty go?" Sherlock tried to think of places but no matter where he went, Moriarty was not likely to go again.

Instead, Sherlock lay on the short couch and thought about his strategy for when Moriarty came out to play.


	24. Chapter 24

Sherlock knew Molly's voice when he heard it, even if it wasn't anywhere near him. John was rudely awaken by a phone call with a sobbing Molly Hooper on the other end. She was reporting to John issues about the wedding, Sherlock presumed, since that was the only audible word in the conversation.

"Molly, slow down." John told her and then listened patiently to her. "Right," a pause, "Good and Mary and Agatha are helping you?" Another pause, "I'll put Sherlock on and you can sort it. You're welcome, Molly. Yeah, you too." John handed the phone to Sherlock who hadn't slept all night. He ran his hand over his face before he got his jumper and Sherlock put the phone to his ear.

"Molly? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

"The venue fell through for the wedding. The pastor said he didn't mind where the ceremony was held, so Mary, Agatha and I came up with some ideas." Sherlock didn't care where the event would take place but he listened to her suggestions anyway and acknowledged them by telling her it would be wherever she wanted. "Another thing. The guest list. We have a grand total of six people attending our wedding so I was thinking, to make it more authentic, that we invite some of your friends from the force." Sherlock wanted to stop her in her tracks. He had no friends on the force, well, none except Lestrade but he had to attend.

"I don't have friends on the force." Molly let out an irritated sigh.

"Colleagues, then. What about Anderson or Sargent Donovan? They're not so bad."

"We're not inviting Donovan." Sherlock made sure he sounded slightly more stern when he heard that, followed by John's soft laughter in the background as he made tea.

"Okay; let's make a list. When I count to three, we have to say at least one person that HAS to be there and we'll work from there. One, two..." Sherlock thought for that millisecond between two and three. Moriarty had to be there and Mycroft but there was one person who had to be there even before them... "Three."

"You." They said in perfect unison. Sherlock laughed a little at how similar they were and thought about how there was no-one he would rather do this with than the one and only Molly Hooper.

"Moriarty and Mycroft definitely need to be there." Sherlock told her, after clearing his throat.

"Janine Hawkins," Molly added and Sherlock stopped thinking about what was coming next and pondered this.

"Why does Janine...?" Sherlock wracked his mind but couldn't think of why the gold-digging Miss Hawkins had to be there.

"It doesn't matter why. Mary, John, Agatha, your parents, my mother, Mrs. Hudson... Can you think of anyone else?" Sherlock thought for a moment and wandered to Irene Adler. Though she claimed she wasn't a part of it, perhaps, when it came down to it, she was.

"The Woman," Sherlock told her. Molly sighed when Sherlock mentioned it.

"You know how I feel about Irene Adler, Sherlock... Fine. But Donovan and Anderson are coming." Sherlock knew he couldn't win this round. He reluctantly told her that would be their compromise.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, "Why did you call John's phone and not mine?"

"Because you prefer to text and you always tune your phone out when you go to your mind palace. If I called John, though, you would've had to have spoken to me. Have a lovely day." She hung up before Sherlock had a chance to say anything to that. She was right, though. He _did_ prefer to text and his phone was always the least of his worries in his mind palace, which he had been in most of the evening. Sherlock hung up the phone, uttered a word of thanks to John and put it on the bench top. He took John's mug of freshly made tea and John just rolled his eyes and got another.

"What's the plan, Sherlock?" John knew better than to ask him about his conversation with Molly and for that, Sherlock was grateful. He didn't want to tell John about trivial wedding matters. Instead, Sherlock's thoughts were directed to what they intended to do today.

"I took a map of the hotel when that idiot bellboy wasn't looking and this hotel has over six hundred rooms, an attic and a basement. If they have Abigail here, they kept her in this room for a small while but when she threatened Mycroft," John looked perplexed but Sherlock continued. "They moved her to either the attic or the basement so they could torture her, be it for information or leverage. You check the basement and I will check the attic." Sherlock slid a male-maid's uniform across the table. John shook his head but Sherlock looked him in the eye. "Please, John."

"If they're anywhere, they'll be in the basement; you know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do, which is why I've set my best man onto it."

"Why wouldn't you want to save your own daughter?" John asked this gently, not knowing exactly how Sherlock would react.

"Because I am too involved," Sherlock said darkly and almost inaudibly. Sherlock knew that if he went in there, he wouldn't save his daughter first. He would annihilate every person in the room before then and then he would go to prison for the rest of his life; the rest of Molly's and the rest of Abigail's. There were too many people he cared for. Why couldn't he detach himself? He had done it before. Why was it so hard this time? "John, have you seen my scarf?" Sherlock looked around for his lilac scarf but couldn't see it anywhere. He couldn't go without it. It had become important to him over the last month since his daughter had gone missing.

"No; you hate it. Why do you need it?" He needed it to remind him of his daughter; to remind him why he was so engrossed in this case.

Ever since she was a child, Abigail had a fascination with the colour lilac. As a toddler, she had a lilac teddy bear, given to her by Molly's mother and she went nowhere without it and as she grew, so did her love for the colour. When she was ten years old, she never left the house without her lilac gloves and was insistent that her room be painted the same colour. It died out a little in her teenage years but it never completely went away. She always loved lilac.

One night when Sherlock returned home from a case, Abigail was struggling with a password for her phone. Sherlock watched her for a moment before he went into the kitchen to check on the specimens in the fridge and get food from beside them. By the time Sherlock had eaten, though it hadn't been much, Abigail had abandoned her phone and had her head in a book. He took her phone from the table and entered a number. 54522.

"You could have a stronger password." Sherlock had told her. "Anyone who knows you could guess 'lilac'." Abigail had told him that she trusted the people who knew her so there was no need for it to be stronger. Her obsession with the colour was an idiosyncrasy she never really grew out of and Sherlock was grateful because it was little things like that that made her unique. That was why he had learned to love that scarf; because it reminded him of all of the good times with Abigail - be it her atrocious baking of lilac coloured muffins or the ridiculous excuses she would come up with whenever her mother found her cat's food bowl in stupid places. It reminded Sherlock that she still had a lifetime of good times ahead of her and it was up to him to ensure that happened. Of course, Sherlock couldn't tell John that. He would make too much of a big deal about it.

"I just do." He found it, picked it up, put it on and began walking out the door. "Text if you find anything."


	25. Chapter 25

John couldn't believe Sherlock wanted to make him wear the costume. Naturally, he only put the hat on to make it look like he had a valid reason to go into the basement. If this had been any other case, he probably would have opted to go with Sherlock but this was his daughter's best friend and almost a surrogate daughter to him since the day Agatha and Abigail could speak. She was almost just as important to him as she was to Sherlock. He continued down the stairs and into the basement, which was a white room, made from concrete. There were rows of laundry machines and dryers and it looked like a Laundromat. In all honesty, John might have preferred it if there was something else in there, like Moriarty and his goons but there was absolutely nothing. That had been his life as of late. Sure, this case had gone on for the better part of a month but it had been relatively safe – a life of a civilian doctor – and he had started to get nightmares again. Naturally, he would never tell Mary or Agatha – they didn't need to worry about him and he would never tell Sherlock because he had enough to worry about. It was just something John had to deal with on his own. He saw something on the floor and as he walked over to it, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Without delay, John rushed to the corner and hid with his hand on his handgun in his coat.  
>"John," Sherlock whispered and John emerged from the corner and looked up at his friend. Sherlock looked dreadful. He hadn't slept in three days, he hadn't eaten since god knows when and the dark circles under his blue-green eyes were something chronic. John pointed to what he had seen before; the red on the floor that looked like rust but John knew better. They followed it and John, after discarding his hat, moved the washing machine. There were chains on a grey concrete wall, where the paint had begun to fade and the wall had become more hostile than the rest of the room. As John looked for something pointing to Abigail, his mind wandered elsewhere; it wandered back to Afghanistan. He closed his eyes for a moment and behind his eyelids was the battlefield. The brown terrain, the collapsing houses and of course, the small room he helped the injured in. There was a man whose eyes bled and they were nearly pressed into the back of his skull and as he entered the first aid room, he had three fractured ribs, a punctured lung and he was bleeding from his wrists as he tried to cut metal chains off. As John was working on him, he felt his heart slow and his breathing become less frantic before he called the time of death. His face haunted him and so, John tried to discard it. He tried to block it out, blinking a few times but it wouldn't go away. John felt his chest tighten and his breathing quicken as he struggled for oxygen and felt a shooting pain in his leg. He didn't know how to get rid of the violent thoughts penetrating his mind.<br>"John!" Sherlock Holmes was talking to him but it was barely audible over the high-pitched sound that he heard after so many gunshots. "John! You are okay. You're here with me." John tried to focus on the sound of Sherlock's voice and as Sherlock spoke, it got louder and John felt himself calm down gradually until he realised where he was and what their purpose was. He thought the panic attacks had stopped. They had. For a while. This was the first one he had had in years. The last time he had one was one month after Sherlock had jumped off Saint Bart's Hospital.

Processing that he was in a room with Sherlock investigating the kidnapping of Abigail, John recovered and looked over at the chains. Nothing like this had ever happened before. It was peculiar but it was never going to happen again so John would have preferred Sherlock not to mention it but naturally, he would.  
>"John, are you okay?"<br>"Fine. Now, what have you found?" John told him abruptly, looking at him briefly and then back to the chains. Sherlock's gaze lingered on him for a moment and John could tell he had more to say but he didn't look away from the chains.  
>"The blood will need to be tested obviously for a match but if they were in the basement afterwards, Mycroft would not be careless enough to get any DNA on the machines. It wouldn't be difficult for them to section this part off... They very well could have been here John but the question is where will they go next?"<br>"Your wedding," John told him, "probably."  
>"We'll just have to see, then won't we?"<p> 


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock was nervous. It was an unwelcome feeling that he simply tried distracting himself by trying to unfilter John's last minute mutterings.

"Do you remember your lines?" Sherlock nodded.

"John," Sherlock began, "We need to talk about what happened in the basement." John had moved a washing machine, based on following a blood trail and saw chains on a wall, flecked with blood and it had triggered a panic attack. His PTSD was returning. That was the only explanation. Sherlock managed to calm him down but it worried Sherlock. His symptoms started developing again more recently, why, Sherlock didn't know but he would find out. "John?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. It was just a..." John tried to wave it away but Sherlock wouldn't let him write it off. Not this time.

"Panic attack." Sherlock finished, "Do you have any idea why it could be surfacing again?" John shook his head.

"The last time it happened was about a month after you... Look, I don't know why it's coming back and it's your wedding day, do you think we could focus on that?" Sherlock began to have an inkling of why they were returning but he did not elaborate. He was like this again because he missed it. He missed how alive the battlefield made him feel, both in Afghanistan and when Moriarty had direct killers. He didn't enjoy it necessarily but he enjoyed feeling alive. With no immediate threats, John missed out on that feeling.

"Of course." He didn't want to argue with John; not right now. He would save it for a day when he wasn't getting married.

The new venue was perfect; even by Sherlock's standards. Molly had chosen one of Abigail's favourite places to come as a child; a beautiful botanical garden with luscious green grass and four aisles of lilac varieties of flowers like Angel Whites and Abigail's favourites, President Grevys with strips of grass separating them. There were beautifully pruned hedges all around and the officiate stood at the front of a small water sculpture in the garden. The wedding was to take place in the middle of the gardens, at the bottom of a hill and near it, were stairs that led to a square patch of nothing but green grass, surrounded by four pine trees at each corner. That, provided the weather stayed beautiful and almost cloudless, would be where the reception would be held. Agatha handed out programs to the people that began to walk to the chairs that had been laid out beside the flowers on either side of the middle strip of grass. This was it. Sherlock looked around when he got outside to see Mycroft waiting at the back to be seated last with his parents. That was one guest here that he wanted. He was one step closer to finding his daughter.

When everyone was seated, Sherlock walked towards the officiate.


	27. Chapter 27

Molly grew impatient with the flower in her hair. She just wanted to throw it at the mirror. Her reflection seemed almost pretentious. In her slim fitting ivory dress, with the flowing skirt and t-shirt length sleeves, Molly stood, agitated.

"Molly?" Mary began, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Molly told her, even though she wasn't the slightest bit fine. "I just..." She shook her head and held the flower to Mary.

"Sherlock's timing couldn't get any worse." Once Mary stuck the flower in Molly's hair, she turned around. "This is something from John, Agatha and I." It was an ornament of a little girl holding a bouquet of flowers. Molly felt tears sting in the back of her eyes. This felt wrong. It should not have been Mary in that tent with her. It should have been Abigail. "You already had something old," Mary placed a silver tiara in Molly's bun, "And so, we thought we'd get you something new." Molly thanked Mary, her voice cracking with emotion. Abigail was her something new. She had always been her something new; never ceasing to surprise her, never ceasing to amuse her with she and her father's dinner conversations. It should have been Abigail in that midnight blue dress. Even though this was only to lure Abigail's persecutors out, Molly still felt off without her daughter being here. The feeling had been festering in her all day, like an infected wound. It made her anxious and full of grief and agitation. What if Abigail never had this chance? Before Molly even had the chance to entertain such a negative possibility, Mary wrapped her in a warm hug.

"We'll get her back; I promise."

"I want her to be here," Molly whispered so quietly that Mary couldn't hear.

"Are you okay?" Molly nodded and Mary looked sympathetic, "Come on; everyone's waiting."

The bridal carpet was rolled out on the strip of grass, where Sherlock Holmes was waiting at the other end. Agatha Watson walked down the aisle alone. There were no other bridesmaids and Sherlock didn't have enough friends for there to be any groomsmen. She looked terrified; the poor girl. She had never been used to being the centre of attention. That was more Abigail's forte; she was the extrovert not Agatha. Molly took a deep breath as Mary and John walked the aisle next in perfect and happy wholeness. When they got to the front, they looked to the back. It took everything Molly had to choke back the tears. She was going to marry the man she had been in love with for a very long time, the father of her beautiful daughter, but the most important person wasn't here to see it.

Latching onto Greg Lestrade's arm, Molly took a deep breath and held her head up high, pushing her anguish aside for the moment as she concentrated on Sherlock at the other end.

Molly's mother ushered Greg to his seat, as Molly smiled at him in thanks, pushing back thoughts of her father and his absence. Taking Molly's bouquet of white lilacs, Mary smiled as the white haired officiate began to speak.

"Dear friends and family," he began, "We gather here today to witness the union of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Molly Hooper." Sherlock looked down embarrassed but Molly simply bit her lip and repressed a full teeth smile as she kept her eyes focused on her fiancé. She could have sworn she heard sniggering from Agatha, though. "Today, you came to these gardens as two individuals but you will leave today as husband and wife; two hearts beating as one. It is in these lilac gardens that your family and friends will witness as you consent to share a pen to write this new chapter in your lives." Sherlock slowly moved his blue eyes from the ground and into Molly's. He looked more nervous than she was. She knew this was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. Domesticity was not a very familiar concept to her favourite consulting detective. He let a half smile cross his lips and she smiled back, trying to reassure him. "Many have said that marriage is the end of an era and, in a way, it is. But more specifically, it is the beginning of a new one. It is impossible to love a person in the same ways for a lifetime but it is something we demand. We thrive for continuity but love is ever changing. In marriage, we grow and we learn until we become a river; two streams of the same current." Molly stopped concentrating on Sherlock and smiled at their audience, scanning for Janine Hawkins in particular. When she found her, she looked back at Sherlock and smiled. She was marrying Sherlock, despite it being for the wrong reason. Nobody else was marrying Sherlock; not Janine or the Woman - no-one except her. "May you be each other's shelter from the rain and warmth from the cold. May you each other's companion from loneliness and always walk together on your new path of joy and harmony. From the book of Peter, Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." Molly felt a shot of adrenaline rush through her at the end of that moment. It was time for the vows. "You may present your vows. Molly?" Molly had asked the officiate to ask her to say her vows first. It gave Sherlock a chance to collate his thoughts. She took a deep breath before she stared deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock, I know who you are. I know your ins and outs, your fears and your vices and I love you and our beautiful daughter more than anyone in this world. And so, I promise to always love you for exactly who you are. I promise to never try to change you and I promise to respect you and your views. Most of all, Sherlock, I promise to love you the way I always have; completely, forever and always." Sherlock smiled awkwardly as the officiate gestured for him to speak. Molly knew how difficult this was for him, so she was patiently waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat and took one step closer to Molly.

"I don't make vows normally; I never know what to say so here it goes. I promise to always protect you from any harm and I promise to take on your point of view and to love you and be there for you whenever you need me until the day I die. When John asked me what you are to me, I gave him a vague answer. I didn't say that you were the love of my life and the beautiful mother of my daughter. Instead, I told him that you are my Molly. You are the one I can always rely on, the one who accepts me truly for who I am, without trying to change me and, you, Molly Hooper, are the one that counts the most." Molly felt a tear escape from her eye. She knew how hard this was for Sherlock and what made it even more special was that he had not preplanned his words. They had been directly from his heart. She could tell by the way he held himself; more nervously than he would if he had been reciting. She had never been more proud or in love with him than in that moment.

"Do you William Sherlock Scott Holmes take Molly Hooper to be your wife to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"

"I do." Molly smiled at Sherlock as he uttered those words.

Do you Molly Hooper take William Sherlock Scott Holmes to be your husband to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?"

"I do." Molly smiled, not concealing her happiness.

"If anyone has a reason these two should not be wed, let him speak now or forever hold his peace." The wedding was deathly silent for a few moments before a familiar 1970s pop song intruded. _Stayin' alive, stayin' alive; ha, ha, ha, ha. _Sherlock looked alarmed but recovered quickly as the song was quieted. Lisa, a friend of Molly's daughter, presented the rings. "With these rings, you are now one heart and one spirit for all eternity." Sherlock and Molly placed the rings on each other's fingers. "By the power vested in me, in the eyes of God and man, I hereby pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned forward and Molly placed a tender kiss on his lips, despite how anxious he felt in that moment. Everybody clapped for them and Molly turned to Mary who handed her bouquet back to her with a congratulatory hug. Sherlock and Molly walked back down the aisle, followed by the wedding party, who signed the certificate before having the photographs taken. The guests were being directed to the square of grass, where the reception would take place. It had a buffet table and chairs for them to sit on when they would eat their lunch, under the sun.


	28. Chapter 28

Abigail watched the ceremony in a black strapless dress at the back of the crowd with tears in her eyes. She looked up; Mary was standing where she should have been. As the tears streamed down her cheeks, she had never been prouder of her parents and her best friend Agatha. Trying to catch them as they went to join their guests for the reception, Abigail rushed forwards but felt a hand on her shoulder and a cool handgun on her bare back.

"You really don't want to do that," Sebastian Moran whispered and Abigail knew not to run. This man was ex-military; he didn't hesitate when he had to shoot someone. She knew they had only brought her here to emotionally abuse her and it was a bit of an understatement to say that it was working. Sebastian held his arm out, gesturing for Abigail to take it. If she could just get her hands on his gun somehow. The old soldier led Abigail down to where all the guests were seated and clapping for Molly who was dancing with Sherlock's father for the father/daughter dance. "Keep your head down, Holmes." Abigail put her head down but kept her eyes up so she could see her beautiful mother in her ivory dress. Molly was smiling but there was something in her eyes; something she had only seen once before. Pain and fear blended into one. Agatha began making her way to the back and Abigail resisted the urge to call out to her as she searched for the expression on her friend's face. She was sobbing.

"Abby, I wish you could be here right now. I need you." Tears were streaming down her cheeks like the Reichenbach falls. She wiped the tears from her eyes with a napkin and took a seat beside Sebastian.

"I miss you, Snow." It had been almost years since Abigail had called her that. They used to have a joke, shared by both them and their mothers, that they were Snow White and Rose Red. They were the best of friends, despite being completely opposite; Snow was introverted and Rose was the extrovert. When they were children, there was a boy who would always pick on Agatha. One day, when he got her alone as she came out of the bathroom, she tried to avoid him but he invaded her privacy and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck. Abigail had kicked this boy in the backs of the knees, causing him to collapse onto the ground.

"Don't you ever come near her again." She had told him and Agatha squeezed her friend's hand in thanks. No-one had really bullied Agatha since then and if they did, they would have Abigail to answer to. Agatha looked at Sebastian for a moment and then turned back to the dancing Molly. Abigail bit her lip and again felt the cold threat of the gun on her skin.

"Watch." He instructed her and she did, trying to think of possible ways she could get the gun from his hands. She decided to go to her mind palace, just to see possible escape routes.

She knew these gardens like the back of her hand; they were where she and Agatha would come whenever John got mad at Mary or when Molly and Sherlock were working late. They would roam around these gardens under the stars and observe every nook and cranny of the lilacs around them. There were bathrooms around here somewhere, Abigail remembered. They were concealed behind shrubs but they were here. This was an event so there would be signs towards it. What she intended to do when she got into the bathroom was unclear but she knew she could use it to escape.

"Seb," Abigail asked,

"Don't call me that," he responded darkly, "What do you want?"

"The bathroom," her voice was hardly a whisper and she had hoped Agatha would hear it but she didn't. Abigail was the spector at the feast.

She had to lead him to the bathroom and so she had the chance to escape but she dared not. He was a dead shot with that gun. She had watched him shoot his own son only two days ago when he attempted to redeem himself to Abigail by trying and failing to get a message to Molly. At least in the bathroom, she would be alone with her thoughts and not distracted by the constant humming sound of chattering people.

Abigail's mind palace was full of many rooms and she wracked it for means of escape from a military trained watchdog. She had always escaped John but those circumstances were different. John would never shoot her because she meant too much to Sherlock. If she stole his handgun, he wouldn't have the advantage but how would she have done that? It was times like this she wished she had her old coat. Inside the lining was a small blade, sharp and pointy enough to cut through a man's arteries. Nobody knew she carried it around with her - not even her father who hid cigarettes in the exact same place. She did have her red coat that her grandmother gave her that fateful day she was forcibly removed from the ground beneath her.

She sat in the bathroom, trying to find a way to get the handgun from Sebastian but that thought turned null very quickly. It was probably unwise to take it from him. He was a soldier; he knew how to take things back. It became evident that she had to find other ways to neutralise the threat. Eventually, she walked into a darker, more sinister room in her mind palace, with a grandiose gothic colour scheme of red and black, with Victorian patterns lining the walls. It was lit by candles and she sat in a leather chair, almost a throne of sorts. Manipulation was the key. Words, at this point, were her greatest weapon. It mattered not that they were her only weapon. Sebastian appeared in a wooden chair in front of her, as she looked upon him disdainfully, in immense detail.

"What makes you tick, soldier?" She asked.

"James Moriarty," he stretched his arms and saw visible scars from his days in war and the countless operations he must have had, indicative of surgical failures. The one day Sebastian wore a t-shirt, Abigail had noticed a scar that could not have ended at his shoulder. It was a gamble; she didn't exactly how to use words to exploit that weakness. She got up from her chair and strolled around the older man. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she twisted it to dislocate it. He didn't shriek, instead, he drew in a sharp breath.

"Do I have your attention?" He drew his hand gun with his left hand and aimed for her, shooting and missing. She quickly knocked the gun from his hand and they both slid across the floor to get it and she got it first. She then aimed to his head. "If you don't stay right where you are, this bullet will go straight through James Moriarty's head. We wouldn't want that, would we, tiger?"

"You wouldn't disrupt mummy and daddy's wedding, would you?" Abigail shot a painting as a sign of good faith. The man sat back and took his phone out. "Don't hurry back." That was when she knew this would work. It wouldn't work for long but it would buy her enough time.

"Come on, Holmes. I haven't got all day." The man waiting outside the bathroom said gruffly.

When Abigail came out of the bathroom, she made herself look lethargic and weak, having to lean on Sebastian's shoulder. He rolled his eyes but helped her to walk anyway. He was following orders. Before Sebastian had a chance to ask what the hell was the matter with her, Abigail began to implement her plan.

Dislocating Sebastian's shoulder was a lot easier than it should have been. He reached for his gun as expected and fired as Abigail moved around swiftly avoiding the soldier's shots slimly and in turn, knocking the gun from his hands. As it flung through the air and into a small patch of lilacs - President Greevys, Abigail's favourites - they both dived to get it but Abigail was quicker.

"Alright, listen, Moran. Stay exactly where you are or James Moriarty will have a bullet through his mouth. We don't want to go through that again, do we, tiger?"

"You couldn't fire a gun to save yourself," Sebastian spat. This was going exactly according to plan. Abigail aimed for the lock on the bathroom door and shot it with close precision. "Don't. Move."

When Abigail got back to the party, John was about to read the telegrams. Everyone had eaten lunch and the cake had been sliced.

"Pray silence for the best man." Everybody fell silent as John stood up. Abigail slunk in beside Agatha, who was at the back away from the wedding party, standing and drinking a small glass of sparkling apple juice. Apples had always been her favourite. Agatha turned to see this new arrival and she dropped her glass. Luckily for the both of them, it didn't smash and John continued reading the telegrams. Abigail wanted to say something to Agatha, to explain to her the plan, but she knew she couldn't because nobody could know she was here.

"Culverton Smith sends his regards." That name made Abigail, Molly and Sherlock uncomfortable and that was when she realised the black and white ivory box on the table. Culverton Smith. He hated her father too. Abigail had a feeling she had heard the name in passing among the dwarfs... The Russian man. He was the gardener! Abigail had a feeling he would be involved somehow. That meant the contents of that ivory box were malicious like they had been previously. She was waiting for the moment when they all began to dance. It would be the perfect moment to get to her parents without causing a scene.

"Snow," Abigail whispered, "Can you hear me?" Agatha nodded but kept her eyes fixed on John; they were excellent at inconspicuous conversation. Abigail held a wine glass to her lips but didn't touch them. "I need you to tell Sherlock to follow the spider because..." Abigail had overheard Sebastian and Moriarty speaking. It had been late last night and Abigail was about to steal Mycroft's phone.

"I'm bored. Little Red Riding Hood is boring, just like her father turned out to be."

"Easy there, Professor, we can't kill her just yet. We have to show Holmes she is alive. We need to see how far he will go."

"I like the way you think, tiger, what did you have in mind?"

"We'll kill her after the wedding." He said nothing more but Moriarty laughed.

"And we can show Sherlock just how red little Rose Red can be." Moran managed to convince Moriarty that Sherlock did not need to be there for it. How was beyond her because they lowered their voices by that time.

"Because Moriarty has plans for me." Abigail managed, swallowing her fear like razor blades in her throat.

"Rose Red, if you're in trouble why don't you just... I'll do it; I'll tell him." Abigail smiled at her best friend, "I'll wait for you; until this all blows over and we can come back here and make flower friendship bracelets like we did when we were kids." Abigail smiled with tears in her eyes.

"I'd like that." She smiled as she began to sneak back to where she had left Sebastian. "I love you, Aggy," she whispered, even though her best friend couldn't hear it.

Now, it was back to the waiting game for Abigail Holmes.


	29. Chapter 29

John delivered such a wonderful speech that it brought tears to Molly's eyes. Sherlock looked on edge as he eyed the man in the black tuxedo with the fox pin on his tie. They were already uncomfortable enough that Culverton Smith was out of prison and Moriarty being here, despite that being the intention, made everyone who knew him very nervous.

"To Sherlock, the best man I have ever met and to Molly, the bravest woman there is. To the bride and groom." John raised his glass and toasted the newlyweds with everyone else and Molly thanked him as he sat down.

"Everyone help yourself to a slice of cake!" Molly announced with a smile on her face, careful so her voice didn't betray how scared she was. Everybody began to shuffle towards the banquet table and Molly tossed her bouquet of lilacs into the air with a smile. Catching them, Agatha smiled down at them as people finished their cake and began to clear the chairs away, ready for the guests to dance.

"Molly, have you seen Sherlock?" Agatha asked and Molly wearily shook her head. Where was her husband? She searched around for him but found him nowhere and so instead, she pursued Janine Hawkins. She had been standing over at the table where people had put their wedding gifts - despite Molly's earnest wishes not to have gifts - and she was drinking a glass of white wine.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Holmes," she smiled and Molly rolled her eyes. She had only met Janine once and that had been years ago at John's wedding. Even then, she had been pretentious.

"I have a couple of questions for you, Janine."

"Sure, ask away." She took a sip of her wine.

"Do you mind if we take a walk?" Janine walked beside Molly and Molly made small talk until they were out of sight of the people at the wedding. "Where is my daughter, Janine?"

"Oh, it was your daughter that went missing? I'm so sorry." Molly rolled her eyes and withdrew a piece of paper from her garter.

"You know it was because you're an accomplice. I found your DNA at Sherlock's flat, right where Mycroft's appeared and as soon as you turn up here, so does Sherlock's ivory box. Now where is Abigail Holmes?"

"Probably dead, by now. She'll turn up in your morgue soon enough." Janine's smile was bitter and Molly was infuriated. Nothing was more frightening than Molly when her child was in danger. Molly took her shoes off and snapped the heel off one of them and Janine slowly began to edge away. Molly was faster and backed Janine into an old oak tree and had her arm across her throat, not enough to restrict her breathing. "If you don't tell me, this is going in your eyeball and you will die on the way to the hospital because of blood loss and anaphylactic shock. Where is my daughter?"

"Moriarty brought her here," Janine told her, eyeing the lethal object that could have been the death of her. "That's all I know, I swear to you." Molly pressed her arm slightly so that Janine would feel her breathing constrict. "Seb..." Molly allowed her to speak, "Sebastian Moran was monitoring her today and god knows where they got to."

"What are Moriarty's intentions?" Janine shook her head and Molly twirled the heel of her shoe in her free hand.

"Moriarty is going to kill her after the wedding and place her so Sherlock can find her." Molly released Janine carelessly from her grip and Janine instantly grasped her throat, relieved to breathe properly again.

"Enjoy the reception, Janine Hawkins." Molly added bitterly as she went back to the happy reception.

When Molly got back, she stood in the crowd, searching for Sherlock but the person that approached her was not her husband.

"Jim... What are you doing here?" Molly smiled timidly. He simply tilted his head with a smile.

"I think we both know exactly why I'm here. May I have this next dance?" The music on the stereo had stopped and when Molly looked over to see what had happened, Sherlock was where the stereo was with his violin. He began to play a song that Molly knew at the very first second. It was a lullaby he used to play Abigail when she was a baby. Bach's sonata number one in G-minor. Molly took his hand warily and they began to dance.

"Where is she, James?" She almost spat in his face.

"Don't you worry your little head, my dear. Have you told him yet?" Molly's face darkened.

"Sherlock would do nothing with that information and you know that." The information about Janine being involved would only cause Sherlock to ruminate and waste time. She loved him dearly but there was simply no time for him to make something clever unfurl from it. "Where is she? Janine tells me you intended to kill her." Molly's voice as a frightened whisper. She didn't want to think about her daughter being killed.

"She was right. It will be oh-so-devastating for our Sherlock, won't it?"

"Why do you want to watch the world burn?" Jim Moriarty simply smiled at her.

"I owe your husband." Molly frowned and thought back to those years ago. The day she had helped Sherlock fake his death, he had been muttering a phrase. I.O.U. Was this a debt Moriarty felt cheated of? Sherlock nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment of the applause that followed.

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock began, with a hostility that was unknown to Molly's ears. "It is rude to turn up to a wedding that you were not invited to." Moriarty smiled at Sherlock.

"Not when I'm the guest of honour. Besides, you wanted to dance." Moriarty extended his hand but Sherlock declined. "Oh, Sherlock, you think you're winning." Molly slunk away while she went to find Agatha.

"Molly!" Agatha exclaimed, "I've been looking for you everywhere. Abigail was here, at the wedding. She said follow the spider because Moriarty had plans for her." When Molly looked to Sherlock, she saw him following Moriarty out. They had to go as soon as they could if they were going to have a shot at finding their daughter and time was not in their favour.


	30. Chapter 30

Molly and Agatha watched from behind a shrub as Moriarty uttered to Sherlock.

"I did tell you. You have until midnight or Red Riding Hood dies." Molly came out from behind the shrub and ran to Sherlock.

"We have to follow him!" She exclaimed as Agatha scrambled behind her. "We have to go to her." Instead of saying anything, Sherlock kissed her and even though she knew she needed to stick to her decision, she melted under his lips as usual. He rested his forehead on hers.

"We will get her back, I promise you." She knew he was simply being jovial to calm her but she allowed it. It was her wedding day after all.

"At least dance with me," she whispered and Sherlock took her hand and her waist and drew her close. She felt herself relax a little more as she remembered the day that had past; the day where Sherlock promised to always protect her and the day she had always dreamed of. It was almost so wonderful that the circumstances could be forgotten. Almost. Molly smiled as Sherlock glided her along the same way which Moriarty had. It was a stranger dance to what Molly had learned that night so many years ago.

It had been dark outside and Sherlock had left John's wedding early. She had followed him outside.

"Sherlock, what is the matter? Don't just say nothing because I know there is something wrong." Sherlock had smiled at her and held his hand out.

"People are supposed to dance at weddings." He smiled and she took his hand.

"Sherlock, I am the most awful dancer." Sherlock simply smiled in return.

"If I can teach John Watson to dance, I can teach you, Molly Hooper." The pair danced the night away to their own tune and went home afterwards and Molly had never enjoyed herself so much. It felt exactly like that only there was something in the back of her mind.

After their small dance, the pair made their way back to the reception. Agatha had got her mother to announce it over to give both the Holmes' and the Watsons time to find the last piece that completed both their families.

The guests slowly began to file out and Mary, as maid of honour, paid for people to clean up. They were free to search.

"Where do we start looking?" Mary asked began.

"Follow him," Sherlock, John, Agatha and Molly said in unison.

"Sherlock, go with John; you two work better together," Molly told him. He kissed her on the forehead before he and John set off to catch a cab.

"Molly, you and Aggie can take my car. I'll finish up here and join you later." Molly reluctantly took the keys.

"How?"

"Sherlock can text me the coordinates." Molly nodded and took Agatha with her. Feeling lucky she took his plates, Molly drew a sharp breath as she climbed into the car.

Molly could see Agatha turning green in her rear vision mirror. In all fairness, Molly was driving well beyond the speed limit. It was uncharacteristic of her but she would do just about anything for her daughter.

"Molly? Do you have any idea where you're going?" Agatha asked almost screaming over the traffic outside.

"I took his plates. If we hurry, we can tail him." Molly passed as many cars as she could as the sun began to set over London. Agatha squinted in the front seat.

"Molly, I think that's him." Molly squinted too and could tell Jim's Westwood blazer anywhere. She slowed and let a car pass her, so she wasn't recognised by her diadem.

"Was she there, Agatha? At the wedding?" Agatha nodded and Molly felt tears well in her eyes but she blinked them away so she could focus on driving. The whole point of the wedding was to coax Moriarty to bring Abby out and Molly had known about that agenda from the very start. She would have been the one to initiate it, had Sherlock not beaten her to it. "Why didn't she come to us?" She found herself muttering. If it was because she felt like she was intruding, she couldn't be more wrong. There was nothing more Molly wanted than to hold her little girl in her arms again. She couldn't wait until this mess was over and she could go home with her husband and she could listen to them criticise the television soap operas with their deduction skills.

As it grew darker into the night, Molly's hands began to shake. She was running out of time.

"Molly, are you okay?" Agatha asked and Molly nodded, even though she had tears streaming down her cheeks, a frantic, throbbing headache and a tight chest from the worry and anxiety she was feeling about Abigail. Moriarty couldn't be trusted at all, much less with her daughter. Thoughts began to cloud her mind and she lost control of the wheel. Agatha seized it before anything could happen and kept them on course. "If you want to share your worry, you can." Molly could hear it in Agatha's voice that she was just as worried as her and she took back the wheel.

"We'll get there if we keep going," Molly tried to stay positive even in the darkest of times. If not for herself, then for the people around her.

"I'm really scared, Aunt Molly." Agatha hadn't called her that since she had been eight years old; the frightened young girl in need of reassurance, the girl who Abby would sit with for hours making lilac friendship bracelets and necklaces in the gardens out of Angel Whites.

"We'll find her, Snow. We've got to." She iterated that more to herself than to Agatha. Molly called her Snow when she was a child because they would always come home for supper and Abby would be going by the name of Rose-Red and Agatha as Snow White.

They followed Moriarty into a small bar in the middle of nowhere. It looked deserted but it was where he had pulled up. He knew he had been followed. He got out of the car, dusted off his suit and walked straight inside with Molly and Agatha close behind.


	31. Chapter 31

The bar was deserted, in the middle of nowhere. A dimly lit establishment, the bar was made from dark oaken wood and the walls were decorated with strange hunting trophies. Behind the counter was a man lying unconscious as Culverton Smith sat at the bar with his scraggly dark locks, drinking a pint. Moran joined him, paying no attention to Abigail as she stood in the corner, her heart racing as she watched the door. It could be anybody that walked through and that was what made her stomach turn; it could be Moriarty, Molly or worse yet, Agatha. She stood, in her red coat, as she heard the door slowly creak open. It was only a matter of seconds before someone walked in; Abigail had a lot of people who cared about her.

Sure enough, it was Moriarty and Abigail felt her muscles relax slightly despite him being the most dangerous criminal mastermind the world had ever seen. Gripping onto the paper she had in her pocket, Abigail swallowed when Moriarty stood beside her and when Mycroft emerges from the shadows, both to continue watching the door. She couldn't leave now because she knew Moriarty had guns everywhere ready to fire on her.

Molly Hooper-Holmes burst through the door and looked around for her daughter. Tears welled up in Abigail's eyes as her mother wrapped her in a tight embrace. Instantly, she relaxed into her mother's arms and did not ever want to leave them. There were so many words she wanted to say but she couldn't get them out. It was like something was caught in her throat, which, in a way, it was. Her apology for all of the hurt she had caused and her apology that her wedding day was tainted with worry and complete anguish.

"This reunion is touching but it's not why..." Mycroft began slowly, "Oh, Agatha, do come out of the shadows." Abigail felt all the colour drain from her face as her heart raced. Agatha couldn't be here. Agatha was always under Abigail's protection. If somebody approached Agatha in an unpleasant manner, Abigail would make sure they knew about it. This was obviously on a much grander scale but what made Abigail queasy was that old habits died hard.

"No!" Abigail yelled at Mycroft who simply glared at her for speaking out of turn. "Leave her out of this," she hissed venomously. Agatha emerged from the shadows and ran towards Molly and Abigail.  
>"Not so fast," Culverton Smith turned from his stool and got up, sauntering towards Molly, unsheathing a knife, "Molly Hooper," he began, "You <em>are<em> a sight for sore eyes. I hear congratulations are in order?" He looked at the lilacs in Molly's hair and caressed her face with his blade. "Your daughter is quite a charming young thing." Abigail's eyes were fixated on the lilacs. The White Angels conjured many memories of herself and Agatha in the gardens.

"Abby," Agatha had began one sunny afternoon in the gardens, her eyes focused on the lilacs as she made her chain. "I've never heard you or your dad say you love each other. You do love each other, don't you?" Abigail slowly began to pry herself away from the President Greevys before she laughed lightly.

"My dad always told me that love was just human error. It made us vulnerable and weak. Sure, we care about each other but I don't know if love is the word I would use." Abigail mused, tying her chain together with Agatha's.

"You Holmes' are a strange pair."

"And yet, you Watsons still surround yourselves with us." Agatha smiled picking up her end of the chain, now white, embellished with flecks of lilac.

"I guess you could call that love." Abigail smiled and they walked home with three feet of a lilac chain separating them. Agatha held the majority white side and Abigail, the lavender kind of lilac. Together, they walked home and decorated Abigail's room with the chain. That was then, before things got complicated. Now, Culverton Smith moved towards Abigail with a crooked smile that looked even more sinister than the one he had previously with a knife. "I was going to settle on killing John Watson but he's not here, so Sherlock Holmes' teenage daughter will have to do." Sebastian Moran got up from his seat and wandered over, standing beside Mycroft and Moriarty, almost looking like he was waiting for Culverton Smith to finish his monologue. "But there's no show without punch." The man was pacing leisurely as Abigail surveyed the room for an escape route and gently brushed her fingers across the piece of card in the pocket of her red coat. With a gulp, she saw no exits.  
>"This is ridiculous," Sebastian declared and shot his gun directly at Molly. Molly was quick on her feet and dodged the bullet faster than anybody Abigail had ever seen and adrenaline shot through her veins as she was proud of her mother but also shaken by the sudden sound of the gunshot.<p>

"Easy, Sebastian," Smith smiled, eyeing Molly with something of amusement arising in his hollow eyes. "Revenge can't be taken in haste." Abigail could see her mother reach into her pocket.

"Do get on with it," Mycroft rolled his eyes at the unnecessary loitering.

"Have I succeeded?" Moriarty spoke up, "Do I have the heart of Sherlock Holmes standing in front of me?"Molly sprayed mace in Culverton's eyes, took Abigail's hand and began to run from the bar.

"Not so fast," Sebastian shot his gun only inches away from the top of Molly's head. She stopped dead in her tracks and Abigail stood beside her.

"Where is our dear Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, sauntering towards them. "The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout..." He sang sinisterly. He took a gun from his pocket.

"Jim," Molly began trying to play on his emotions, providing he had some shred of them. He simply twirled the gun in his hands.

"Maybe this will help you answer the question." Sebastian aimed for Agatha Watson with alarming precision and pulled the trigger.


	32. Chapter 32

All that could be heard was the sound of Molly's horrified, deafening, high-pitched scream as Abigail Holmes leapt in front of Agatha Watson and the impact of the bullet slowly sent her backwards after staggering back. "Abigail... Why would you...? Why would you jump in front of...?!" Agatha screamed, desperately trying to find a way, any way at all, to keep Abigail alive. If she kept pressure on the wound, perhaps she wouldn't die of blood loss.

"Aggy... Look at me," Abigail smiled, despite feeling every drop of blood draining from her. Agatha's tears were like acid as the miniscule drops fell on Abigail's skin. Abigail felt Agatha's pain and it wasn't the bullet in her chest that made this painful. It was that she could see in Agatha's misty brown eyes how her heart was collapsing alongside Abigail's own. "...Human error." Abigail's eyes began to close and her body started to twitch. "No!" Agatha's scream was hysterical but she watch as her best friend went into shock. "No!" She repeated over and over. "Abigail Holmes; you stay with me! You are not allowed to be dead! Do you hear me? Stop this!" That was when Agatha, her hands covered in her best friend's blood, took Abigail's hand in her own and felt her fingers grow colder. This couldn't be the end. They still had their whole lives ahead of them. They were going to go to university and they were going to grow up and get married and... Agatha shook her head and sat beside Abigail, her head hung low and her hands clutching Abigail's lifeless ones.

"Agatha," a voice said, unfamiliar to Agatha's ears. Instead, Agatha continued to kneel beside her outspoken friend, refusing to move. "Come back to me, Abby. I'll wait for you. I don't care how long it takes you..." Her voice was a whisper now. In the moments that Agatha had spent beside her, John, Sherlock and Mary had arrived at the scene. John tried his hardest to pry her away. He knew all too well what his daughter was going through. He'd been through the same thing. He had lost his Holmes too and the worst part was the Watsons had always been too stubborn to say how much their friends meant to them. John had his turn; he got to tell Sherlock. Agatha would never have that chance - not now, not ever.

"Agatha, we have to go."

"I'm not leaving without her." Mary wiped a tear from her eye and exchanged a concerned look with her husband. All Mary wanted to do was hold her daughter and offer her comforting words but she knew they would be in vain. There was no coming back from this. Today, Agatha had lost a sister, a soulmate, a best friend. No words could heal that festering wound. Agatha stayed in her position, rigid and unmoving.

Molly stood, numb. She refused to believe that the lifeless child in front of her was her daughter. Her daughter was safe and sound. Abigail couldn't die... Not before she had had a chance to grow up. Sherlock and John rushed over to Abigail after John had phoned the ambulance.

Sherlock looked at her with an analytical expression as he took out his magnifying glass. John looked at him, incredulous that he was examining his own daughter like the corpse of a stranger. His eyes wandered to Mary who just shook her head. John knew that was one of the ways Sherlock would deal with this but it didn't dampen the fact that he seemed so at ease with it.

"John, you're a medical man. What killed her?" John almost didn't answer. They had watched it happen. Sherlock knew what killed her.

"Blood loss and shock..." Sherlock pulled something from Abigail's pocket of her red coat. A piece of card, the very same card they made their wedding invitations on, attached to an Angel White and President Grevy. On the card, in Abigail's handwriting was a note.

You destroy the things you love.

Sherlock gently placed the note a few feet from Abigail's corpse.

"John," Sherlock warned, "Get Agatha, Molly and Mary home." When the enormity of the event struck Sherlock, his voice faltered. He had broken his vow. The scent of spirits filled the air as Sherlock looked up at John with more urgency than before. John acquiesced, finally managing to pry Agatha away. She screamed and tried to escape John's grasp but couldn't.

"Abby!" She cried as both Molly Mary helped to restrain her on the way out. Sherlock looked to Culverton who was about to strike a match.

"I said I would do it, Sherlock." Moriarty smiled at him. "When we first met, I said I would burn the heart out of you. And there it is, lying in a bright red coat." Sherlock scooped his daughter up in his arms and took her out as the fire Culverton Smith had lit began to spread as quickly as a forest fire. "The incy wincy spider always wins." Moriarty's laugh was but an echo as Sherlock climbed into the ambulance with Abigail lifeless in his arms, leaving the deserted bar in the middle of nowhere to burn.


	33. Chapter 33

Today, Baker Street was eerily silent.

"It's okay to cry, Sherlock; there is no shame in crying." Sherlock shook his head frantically. He didn't cry because he had too many tears to cry that none would fall. He continued going about his tasks, trying to block out that echo in his head; the echo of Mycroft's cold voice and his disapproving ice cold stare, don't get involved. It had been too late for that. Abigail was his daughter and despite his uncaring exterior, she had been right. He wasn't a sociopath and was certainly not high-functioning. He was far from it; he was overwhelmed by the emotions that he had locked away for so long and now that he wanted to express them, they would not come to him. John tapped his friend's shoulder comfortingly, hanging his head low as an expression of sympathy. "John, shouldn't you be at home?" Sherlock was going to say comforting his daughter but that made it so much more real. John rolled his eyes and Sherlock searched for his black blazer. "Sherlock," John, at this point, hugged his best friend. That was when Sherlock felt a tear escape from his eyes. "I'm so sorry." Sherlock had never been very emotional but when it came to his daughter, something changed in him. This wasn't just a cold case. Sherlock let his heart rule his head, something he'd sworn off doing many times before. "I know sorry doesn't... I'm not going anywhere. Not until I know you're alright."

"Why are you worrying about me when your own flesh and blood is undergoing particularly macabre post-traumatic stress disorder?" Sherlock was angry now, not with John in particular but with himself. How could he let things get so out of hand? "Get out. I need to think." John shook his head.

"Thinking is the worst thing you can do right now. Trust me." That was when Sherlock lost what little composure he had left.

"Who died and made you the expert?" Sherlock's voice was venomous.

"You did," John whispered and the extent of Sherlock's words hit him like a tornado.

"Please, John, just go." John picked up his blazer and started out the door.

"I'll see you soon. I'll have my mobile if you need me." As John closed the door, Sherlock got up from his seat and held his fragile ivory box in both of his hands.

Inside the box was a deadly spring, technically a murder weapon but Sherlock had pulled enough strings to obtain the box in its original condition. Delicately, his fingertips brushed over the patterns.

"...And then Sherlock told me..." Molly had been telling Abigail while Sherlock listened in.

"'Molly, you can come out now,' I told her," Sherlock smiled warmly, sitting beside Molly on sweet Abigail's bed.

"And when I was out, I was a witness to a confession and the bad man was taken away." Molly told her and the eight year old's eyes widened.

"But what happened to the spring?" Sherlock smiled and Molly bit her lip.

"I kept it. It's still in there." Sherlock looked at his daughter who stared at him with such inquisitive eyes.

"That's why he left it with me, so no-one would touch it." Molly kissed her daughter on the forehead and bade her goodnight before she started to close the door.

"Sherlock," Abigail began in a whisper. "I love you." Sherlock's lips parted slightly, almost as though he was going to say it in return.

"Goodnight, Abby," he whispered instead, closing the door behind him.

He put the box down and slammed his fists on the mantelpiece. He had always taught her that love was simply a chemical defect found in the losing side but even so, Molly had taught her something else; that love and humility are so important. Abigail loved him and in many ways, she saved him. She showed him that it was not a weakness to let emotions be the guide for a while. Of course, he had struggled with that concept at first but he warmed to it and now, it was happening all at once. His head was throbbing and his eyes were watering. John had been right; thinking was the worst thing for it.

Before he allowed himself another tear, Molly called him.

"Sherlock," her voice was shaking. "I don't know if I can..." Sherlock did not know how to comfort his wife; he was not ready to put a brave face on either. It had been two weeks since Abby had met her end.

"Molly," Sherlock could say nothing else to her; he could offer her no sense of comfort because it would be false and he never lied to Molly in all the years he'd known her. He didn't intend on starting now. She took a deep breath.

"I'm coming to get you," she managed to choke out between sobs. Sherlock had never seen the point of funerals because the person was dead and they weren't ever coming back. Why did people dress in black and congregate to cry together because of that fact? He knew Abigail would have agreed with him if she were here but she wasn't and she never would be again.

When Molly arrived, she picked up Mrs. Hudson as well, who hugged her, apologising to her with profuse tears streaming down her withered cheeks. This would be a tearful affair.

When they got to the church, everything seemed gloomier. Perhaps it was the closed casket at the front or the rays from the stained glass casting a blood red onto the altar. Sherlock looked at Molly, who had an unreadable expression on her face. John and Mary emerged from the penance chamber, where they were discussing something with the pastor.

Molly did not want to see inside the casket. She had murmured once that if she did that, it would become real and that was not something she was ready for. To her, it was all one sick, scary nightmare.


	34. Chapter 34

Molly was choking back tears as she walked up onto the podium. She knew Sherlock would not have written the eulogy.

"Standing here today to say... goodbye to our Abigail is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

"Condensing my daughter's life into just a few minutes will be hard but I have to try." Her voice was shaking as she looked across into the dizzying sea of black and into the mourning faces of her family and friends. Every word came out of her mouth like thorns in her side as she continued the eulogy from the bottom of her heart.

"Abigail was an outspoken, intelligent girl. Even as a baby, she would think outside the box. I remember her first day at school – I think I was more nervous than she was. I held her hand and walked her to the gate with tears in my eyes. Instead of collapsing or crying with nervousness, Abby turned to me and told me with a wide smile, "Have a good day, mummy. I will be alright!" And she was... Her dear old mother needn't worry. Sherlock tried to assure me of that but I just couldn't help worrying and when Mary dropped Abby and Agatha home after school, they had drawn pictures of their favourite people and demanded lilac cupcakes." Molly let herself smile at the fondness of her memories even though tears were welling like water behind a dam behind her eyes. She looked over at Sherlock for support and he had his eyes focused intensely on her, his mouth in a thin line.

"As Abby grew from a girl into a teenager, I could see the woman she was becoming - strong, intelligent and fierce. She loved her friends and the element of mystery to a fault. After school, almost every day, Agatha Watson and she would rush to the gardens and make long chains of flowers for hours on end and give me one when she was done, telling me she had made it with deep emotional love, as the colour symbolised." Lilac had always meant so much to her and consequently, to the whole family. "Despite her amazing mind for science and logic, she had a knack for compassion and love that rivaled any other." She swallowed and it was like razor blades piercing her throat. Now came the hardest part.

"Even though Abigail was my daughter, she was also my friend. On the nights Sherlock was working on a case, we watched cheesy romance flicks that were 'The right amount of pretentious' as she'd have it and we braided each other's hair. We spoke about things neither of us could say in Sherlock's presence. It's these kinds of moments that I savour - those moments when I could see her grow from a teenager into a mature young woman with wonderful plans ahead." The tears were free-flowing now but her voice was even as she continued for her daughter.

"She wanted to be a science teacher; she'd said that children needed to learn science the way she had. It would have been the perfect job for her with her positive outlook and her unwavering patience." When Molly thought of Abigail as an adult, coming home after work and complaining about the children, the tears were hotter on her cheeks, burning them like acid. She knew this was not enough to do Abigail justice but it would have to do if Molly was to keep herself together.

"Abigail was adored by her family and her friends and she is going to be sorely missed. I would like to thank you all for your support in this difficult time.

I know she wouldn't want us to grieve for too long and instead enjoy remembering the good times." Turning to the casket with a bouquet of President Greevy's, Molly inhaled deeply and whispered.

Goodbye, my beautiful darling Abby. I am so proud of you." Sherlock stood in the aisle, pensive, as Molly laced her fingers through his once more and felt them tighten. Sherlock was not coping with this either, she realised and she was the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge and he was the only thing keeping her from doing the same. It was two of the frailest structures supporting each other but they had to stick together. They had to be two mirrors; in the faces of each other, they had to see infinity was a possibility although it seemed far away.

The mourning faces had become nothing but shadows to the Holmes family as the casket clouded Molly's view. The pastor's words were muffled and almost faded into the background as she thought she could hear the sound of her own heartbeat that leapt into her throat. There was no pain imaginable that could rival the piercing loss of a child, especially one with such bright dreams and one with so much love in her heart. Agatha had joined Sherlock and Molly and Molly simply wrapped her arm around her and hugged her tightly. If anybody knew how much Abigail meant, it was Agatha. It was Agatha and Molly who had spent almost every waking moment with her, after all. In that moment, Molly cared not for Mary and John's confusion about where their daughter had got to. Instead, she wanted somebody to share that awful burden with and Agatha was that person.

They didn't look at each other, nor did they react to the other speeches given from Abigail's grandparents. They were like statues, except they weren't done in likeness of anything. Instead, they were the gloomiest depiction of grief; too complex for even abstract to convey. Today would be the saddest day for them both; losing a daughter and a best friend.

Raindrops crashed hard onto the sloped roof of the church and the winds whistled as they carried songs of sweet mockingbirds as a sad lullaby for the child to whom they had said their goodbyes.


	35. Chapter 35

Abigail Holmes' gravestone stood, alone beside a statue of an angel, as the wind swept over the grass and there, stood a figure with a white shawl draped around her shoulders."Abby," Agatha Watson's voice cracked as teardrops fell from her cheeks onto the patch of dirt, where no grass grew. "You were my Rose-Red and we were supposed to grow up and fall in love with princes and…" She shook her head, her voice quivering, shaking with sadness and from the coldness that swept over her, unable to fill the place at her side that was an empty void where her friend was supposed to be. "I would give anything for you to come back to me… I don't know how to express in words what you," she looked up, trying to blink away the tears that were streaming like a waterfall, "what you mean to me and I am so, so sorry I never told you when you were alive… I couldn't bring myself to… I'll wait for you, Abigail Holmes. Come back to me. I need my Rose-Red at my side again." And with that, Agatha placed a single red rose on the grave of her best friend and let rain conceal all of her tears that she felt no obligation to contain. Her best friend was gone and she wasn't coming back. As she walked away, everything was grey and dark. Nothing could be seen through her eyes even the angel statue had disappeared.

She simply wanted to curl up beside her best friend and not have to face a single day without her. All of her plans involved Abigail; her present and her future. Even her past memories had her face stamped in them like a permanent tattoo imprinted on her mind forever.

As the wind began to pick up again, Agatha began to make her way to the Holmes' house for the collation. Her parents would get worried and Molly and Sherlock needed their support, even if Agatha thought herself as a walking reminder that Abby, their daughter, died in her place.

By the time Agatha arrived, everybody had left and Molly, despite everything, was putting away the funeral casseroles. Mary and John exchanged weary looks before Agatha walked in with her eyes to the floor.

"Agatha," Mary started and Agatha ran to her mother, hugging her tightly as she let all of her emotions spread across her face. Tears soaked Mary's black blouse as her daughter sobbed into it and when she pulled away, she went and sat beside Sherlock in silence. John wanted to comfort his daughter but he didn't know know how. He had not wanted to be comforted when he had found himself in a situation almost exactly parallel to hers.

The two simply sat, staring at different objects for moments on end. Agatha had often seen Abby do it but she never really took in the therapeutic value it seemed to have on her and her father until right now.

Normally, thinking and brooding would be the last thing they should do but in that moment, it was the only way Agatha could see Abby; the only way her smiling face could be here with her.

When Agatha looked up, Mary was giving Molly a hug and murmuring something empathetic in tone but at an inaudible frequency.

"Agatha, it's time to go home." John began, folding his hands after sitting across from Sherlock, trying to get a word out of him just to check that he was alright or, as right as a man could be after losing his teenage daughter.

"I'm going to stay with Molly tonight," Mary told him, "They both need someone supporting them and it doesn't look like Sherlock is moving from that chair." The last bit was uttered quieter, so quiet that Molly wouldn't be able to hear it. John nodded and told Agatha that he would wait in the car for her while she said her final goodbye to her best friend and goodnight to her mother.

The two Watsons said nothing in the car. What could they say to each other on such a tragic day that would make them feel remotely better?

Agatha got home and went straight into her bedroom, hearing but paying no heed to John's sigh after her.

She collapsed onto her bed and picked up her photo frame that had Abigail and her at their junior dance. Her tears fell onto Abigail's smiling face. How could she do this? It was one thing to protect her from high school bullies but to take a bullet for her was not necessary; Abigail had always had a brighter future than Agatha. Why would she just throw it away? How did she expect her to live with that on her shoulders?

Agatha opened her wardrobe door, trying to find the first friendship bracelet she had made with Abigail the first time they went to the gardens. It was in a small velvet box – a lilac one – somewhere and she would find it no matter what. There was something she just had to do, even if that was something trivial that would, in no way, make her feel better but it certainly couldn't make her feel worse. Perhaps if she lay the bracelet to rest alongside her best friend whom she still couldn't believe had gone she would have a better chance at achieving closure.

When she found and opened the box, she delicately picked up the dying chain of lilacs. The petals were browning and more fragile than fine china. Even the slightest tug could tear it. They were symbolic of how Agatha was feeling. All of her emotions flooded her to the point of wilting, when the smallest thing could break her beyond repair. It was a horrible feeling, admittedly, and she would have given anything to escape but she knew as soon as she did, she would have to let Abigail's friendship go and that was something completely unforeseeable.


	36. Chapter 36

Sherlock spent most of his time in the dusty old flat in Baker Street and hadn't spoken to anyone in days. Nobody except Abigail. He had been in his mind palace, sitting, talking with her.

Today, they were in Baker Street, one of their favourite places, and Sherlock was in his chair and Abigail was in hers.

"Sherlock," Abigail smiled playfully, "Do you remember when I was a kid?" Sherlock smiled, getting up from his chair and pacing and he began his trip with his beautiful daughter down the dust speckled path of memory lane in his vast mind palace.

_The rain was pouring on the top of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital and an apprehensive Molly Hooper stood close to Sherlock looking on at a small box with tears in her eyes. Inside the box was a small infant weighing only 2.8lbs, with tubes to help her breathing. _

_"Sherlock," Molly whispered, "I'm scared." Sherlock knew that sensation; his heart was beating faster and his breathing was unsteady as thoughts began to pile in his head of the awful fate that could possibly befall this child, this infant, whose life he was responsible for. His logical brain failed him in that moment. _

_"Me too," his voice was inaudible to Molly but he was very aware of what he said as he watched her tiny little stomach struggle to move in the normal motion of breathing. "I will protect you, Abigail. I promise." Sherlock's eyes focused intensely on her as he vowed this under his breath. "Always." _The wind still howled and the rain still poured even as the scene slowly melted away.

_Sherlock soon found himself in his chair in Molly's home, watching a small child, his young daughter, Abby, with a lilac teddy bear on the floor. _

_"Sherlock, I'm going to get some milk. Can you watch her for a moment?" Sherlock felt a shot of adrenaline course through his veins as he panicked. He didn't know how to look after a toddler. Naturally, he would never admit that to Molly. _

_"Of course," he smiled as she walked out the door._

_Sherlock watched as the girl in the lilac t-shirt continued to play with the teddy bear. Children fascinated him. For some reason, they were sometimes cleverer than most adults he knew. Perhaps it was their ability to think outside the confines of society and into the depths of the unusual. _

_"Sher?" The child said, slowly setting her bear down beside Sherlock's foot. "Sher... Play?" Sherlock looked bewildered. Instead, he simply nodded and her entire face lit up like a Christmas tree as she walked clumsily elsewhere. _

_When she returned, she had another bear, a black one, and handed it to him, picking up her lilac one. _

_She made the bears' hands touch and held them together as both Sherlock and Abby guided them in a vertical path towards the kitchen the kitchen counter. _

_"Sherlock and Abby," she sang, "la, la, la, la." Sherlock didn't understand the concept of this but the child was happy and that made him relax and enjoy watching her be so amused by walking bears that held hands. _

_He had got very engaged with the game, sometimes even singing along with her when Molly returned home and lingered in the doorway, watching them play. _

_"You can come inside, Molly," Sherlock smiled. _

_"You two are going to be great friends one day," she smiled in return, bringing the groceries in and putting them away. "Very great friends."_

Sherlock, as he watched himself and his daughter in his memory, felt a smile and a pang of longing. His heart warmed; his daughter accepted him. she always had and that was something Sherlock truly admired about her; she didn't try to change him. Sherlock went out the door of Molly's house, leaving this particular memory behind. Before long, as he continued his voyage through his mind palace, he began to feel something in his chest; a sense of longing.

He stood outside the pet store now, watching himself and Abigail, an independent ten year old, walk inside. Sherlock remembered this with regret and shame. _There were cats, dogs and even goldfish on sale in the store as the rain thundered hard on the roof. Abigail wandered around, marvelling at the animals with such excitement in her eyes and Sherlock went in pursuit of the clerk to buy cat food for that awful feline Molly adored._

_While he spoke, he looked out of the corner of his eye to see Abby playing with a small red Irish Setter puppy and tears began to collect in his eyes and his chest felt like he had been shot through. They had to leave as soon as they could. Sherlock collected the cat food grudgingly and stood over Abby, refusing to look at the dog._

_Abigail's whole face was alight with joy as she adoringly petted the dog, uttering, "You're a clever boy." Sherlock was reminded of himself in that moment and all of the pain he had suppressed from the loss of such a loyal, caring pet came flooding back to him; like painful shards of glass piercing into him and a high-pitched scream infiltrating his mind right down to the core, the very centre of his being. "Sherlock," Abby asked, breaking him out of his trance. "Can we keep him?" Sherlock shook his head immediately. _

_"No," he said, perhaps a little too coldly. Abby's face fell as she slowly directed her eyes from the puppy to her father. "People become too attached to their pets and then their pets die." Sherlock was trying to keep his voice even but Abigail could see right through it._

_"Is that what happened to you?" Her voice was a small, strained whisper. _

_"Love is a chemical defect found in the losing side. It's..." _

_"I know, I know; human error." With that, she said nothing more on that topic and bade farewell to the beautiful dog with a heavy heart. They got into the car and drove away._

As they drove, Sherlock stood with a tear running down his face. Abigail knew about Redbeard but not for sure and she'd never ask him until that night...

"I know about Redbeard. Mycroft told me everything." Abigail's bluff echoed in his head. Mycroft would have never tell her anything and they both knew that. Abigail had been sitting on this information for years but she dared not mention it. She respected Sherlock too much for that and over the years, Sherlock had come to respect her as not someone who needed constant watching and guidance but as his equal. That was a difficult thing to achieve but it wasn't impossible.

_When the scenery shifted and blended into a painting hanging on Molly's wall, both Sherlock and Abigail were sitting in armchairs. _

_"Where were you going?" He asked, staring at her for a second. _

_"Not your concern," she told him, flippantly._

_"I think it is my concern if you are dressed provocatively, with your mother's perfume and even her shade of lipstick on you. You wouldn't dress like that had you been going to the Watsons' so to town it is. Agatha is going with you obviously from the colour ring you're wearing. Agatha's favourite; ivory. So, I will ask you again. Where were you going?" _

_"Sherlock," she began, "You're sitting in an arm chair wearing your black attire and when you went to see your brother, he denied you access to a case and now you are restless and bored. Ever since Molly prohibited firing guns in the house, you have been aching for something to soothe your boredom... Drugs, perhaps, like the ones you keep in the linings of your coats but since Molly is here, you can't use any and so, you want something to solve. Sherlock, I'm not a case, so I'll tell you again. Where I'm going is not your concern." _

_Sherlock simply smiled at her. _

_"Don't be out too late; Molly will start to worry." Abigail rolled her eyes, getting up from her chair._

_"So will you," she smiled happily. _

_"Of course I won't. It's not my concern." He winked at her as she grabbed her bag and left the house. _

_"Goodnight, Sherlock." _

_"Goodnight, Abby." Watching the confrontation, Sherlock smiled; he had taught her well - perhaps a little too well. _Sometimes, it was like she was the only person that ever understood him. The rest of them were idiots and Mycroft. Abigail was so important to him. It hurt for him to use the past tense. Was.

_"This is it, Sherlock. I'm dead. You of all people know that what's dead should stay dead." _

_"No!" Abigail began to walk away, into the darkened hallway of the house. Sherlock chased after her but when he opened the door to get into the the hallway, it instead led to the forest at the back of his parents house. The wind was qstrong, blowing a bitterly cold breeze from the east. Struggling through an increasingly awful storm, he followed Abby in her bright red coat as she walked into the forest. He tried to catch up with her but his legs were simply too slow and no matter where she went, she was in his reach but she was still so far from him._

There was only one way Sherlock would be quick enough to catch her. He got out of his mind palace for a moment as he walked slowly to his old bedroom. Inside the drawer, where he usually would have kept his scarves, was what he needed. He took the substance to his chair and wrapped his lilac scarf around his arm, tightly, on his bicep.

As he shot it into his veins, he entered his mind palace once more in pursuit of his daughter and he was faster. Only a few steps from her. If only he could be the slightest bit faster... _He continued to pursue her against the wind and now the intense horizontal rain. He chased and chased until he slipped and felt too weak to continue but he did. He got to his feet and went after her until he got to a clearing. She was standing at the fort Mycroft and he had built when they were children. He ran to her with what little strength he had and didn't let go. _

_"Sherlock..." The house behind her began to shake as she willed Sherlock to let her go._

_They sat down beside each other. _

_"You need to talk to Molly," she told her, "Make her understand." Sherlock shook his head and absorbed his daughter one more time. They sat for moments on end, deducing each other and just enjoying each other's wordless company. A thick dark smoke began to fill the air from the forest floor around Abigail and Sherlock shook his head frantically, pulling himself out of his mind palace. Abigail was fading and he had to stop it. He had a dry mouth as he refilled his syringe going back into his mind palace as it began to take effect. No longer was Abigail being ensnared in black smoke. Instead, she opened the small door of the fort. _

_"Come on, Sherlock," she smiled happily, reminding him of her as a small child. "Mycroft's not here. I checked," she winked at him as she went inside. Sherlock relaxed, his breathing was slow as he followed her inside. She closed the door and he was not in his childhood fort. Instead, he was in a large padded room, with broken chains and his daughter. She sat on a chair and gestured to one in front of her. _

_"For old time's sake." He slowly walked over to it and his daughter sang while he walked. _

_"The incy wincy spider climbed up the water spout..."_

_"Down came the rain and washed the spider out." He finished in a daze._

_"Then out came the sun and dried up all the rain..."_

_"And the incy wincy spider climbed up the spout again." Sherlock smiled at his daughter._

_"Goodnight, Sherlock. See you in the morning." Sherlock felt his eyes begin to droop and saw a white light as he closed them with a smile on his face._


	37. Chapter 37

"John," Molly called John for the tenth time today.

"Molly, what is it?" Maybe it was tenth time lucky.

"I haven't heard from Sherlock in days... Have you seen him?" Molly's stomach turned and her heartbeat quickened. He did this from time to time; went off by himself to be alone with his thoughts but it was never usually this long. Unless he was using. Molly pushed the thought away instantly. Sherlock was stronger than that now. He didn't need drugs.

"He hasn't been home?" This was the answer Molly was absolutely dreading.

"Not since the funeral reception," She tried to keep her voice even but it was trembling. Sherlock was all she had and if he wasn't coping, who was she supposed to lean on?

"You check Baker Street; I'll go to Leister gardens and the others," he said that last bit darkly but Molly knew what he meant. John would check the drug dens for his best friend.

As the rain poured down on her car, Molly felt a tear escape her eye. She hadn't seen Sherlock in nearly two weeks and she was starting to fear the worst of him.

The route to Baker street had become so familiar to her over the years that she didn't need to focus very much on driving. Instead, she was trying to focus on positive thoughts. Sherlock was alright; he just needed to be alone to grieve. It was hard to think positively when everything around her was crashing down like a castle of glass under siege. Her positive thoughts always involved Abigail. There was always on her mind. She was a miniscule chance she lived. They didn't have the body at the funeral because she hadn't come into the morgue... No. She couldn't distract herself with hope because she had to find Sherlock first.

When she got to Baker Street and unlocked 221B, she called out for Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly's call was soft. This process was fragile, like trying to pet a wild stallion. The old lady walked up to her,

"Hello, Molly dear," She gave her a hug. "I'm still very sorry... She is always in our hearts."

"Thank you," Molly said quickly, "Um have you seen Sherlock?"

"Not for a few days... Have you two had a fight? That's none of my business anywho but he is right upstairs. He told me not to bother him or even bring him tea so..." Mrs. Hudson snivelled and Molly gave her a quick hug.

"Thank you," she said as she began walking up the stairs.

With a nervous sigh, Molly lingered at the door before she knocked on it. What did Abigail and Sherlock talk about when they came here? Abigail would sometimes come home angry with Sherlock but Molly could never get it out of her and would often be the intermediary and the peacekeeper. Sherlock was either her worst enemy or her best friend. That was the problem with them being so similar to each other.

Molly knocked but no response came and so she slowly opened the door.

"Sher..." Her eyes scanned the room but one thing stood out. Sherlock's lilac scarf was hanging from his arm, dangling limp over the arm of his chair. She walked over to him and his beautiful blue eyes were closed.

"Sherlock!" She screamed, "Sherlock, wake up," she shook him but he wouldn't move, not even an inch. Molly looked around and saw a silver tray on the coffee table in front of where she knelt beside her husband. There was a large needle with nothing inside it and blood on the tip of it. She should have known he would be using. It was what he did when he couldn't cope. She looked at his arms with tears escaping freely down her cheeks. "Sherlock," she murmured, "Come back to me. I just lost Abby. I can't lose you too... I don't... I'm not strong enough." Molly's sobs were violent and she clasped Sherlock's limp hand. "Sherlock, you are an idiot," She told him sitting beside his chair. "How am I...?" Her voice had never trembled so much in her life. The love of her life was sitting motionless in a shabby chair, in a dusty old flat.

"You have to wake up. Stop... I've helped you die once and I am not helping you again, do you hear me?" Sherlock didn't move. Molly held onto his hand tighter and closed her eyes.

"You're the first face I see and the last thing I think about..." She sang as she closed her eyes and leaned against Sherlock's chair. She simply sat there with tears streaming down her face and her eyes closed for moments on end. It wasn't until she heard a knock at the door that she responded and got to her feet.

She wiped the tears from her face and off her cheeks as she answered the door.

"Molly," John's face was full of concern. "He wasn't..." John looked over Molly's shoulder and clapped his hand to his mouth.

"I already phoned the ambulance," Molly told John, "About three minutes ago." John limped over to his best friend.

"Sherlock...?" John asked, taking a pulse. Staggering, John felt tears escape from his eyes. "I can't do this again, Sherlock... Stop this." John's voice shook as he shook his head and blinked the tears back. Before he said anything else, Molly wrapped him in a tight embrace. If anyone knew what she was going through, it was John. He had dealt with this before but she hadn't and that was the alarming thing. He had never really got over it because he had just invited Sherlock back into his life without any reluctance and willingly slipped back into old habits. It was like a constant cycle of grief on repeat. She didn't know if she could deal with that. At least, she couldn't deal with it on her own. No-one knew Sherlock like she did. No-one connected with him like she did. They stood like that for a long time.

The rain crashed like shards of glass down the windows.


	38. Chapter 38

Molly lingered at Baker Street, despite her husband sitting motionless in his chair. As she walked the hallways, she remembered all of the Christmases she had spent here with John, Mary and Greg Lestrade. She traced the walls with a sense of longing; longing for the old times before everything she loved was seized from her. The walls were contaminated now. Memories of Sherlock flooded through her as she slowly made her way to his bedroom, searching for one item in particular. It had been taken but she needed it for no reason other than to keep Sherlock close to her and would search high and low to find it.

In the living room, she could hear the ambulance officers as muffled sounds.  
>"Official time of death, 2.03pm on Saturday 1st November 2014," Molly whispered under her breath only milliseconds behind the officers. She knew all too well how this procedure worked. They would take the body away in a black bag, strapped to a stretcher and then take the person away in the ambulance and prepare them to be sent to the morgue in Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. They would contact family members and tell them the news and offer support services and funeral directors and oftentimes support groups to deal with grief. Molly had gone through that only one month ago. When they had offered her a support service, she had violently shaken her head. Sherlock had told her they were just another form of reflective therapy and it never made people any better, it made them worse. They got stuck on it, like a broken record. His room had always been chaos, even though he didn't live here. There were still scarves everywhere and photographs of strangers with red crosses through them. Even though what she was searching for was fairly recognisable, it was still a mission.<p>

When she found it, she traced it in her hands, admiring it; the ivory box Sherlock made her protect. Instead of moving, she simply kept her eyes fixated on the box and stood there for a moment. As she stared at it and felt the sheer weight of it in her hands, she smiled to herself. This was the last secret she and Sherlock shared before his two-year stint across Eastern Europe and Russia. She had asked him what was in it many a time. He had been evasive and told her that under no circumstances was she to ever open it. It was like Pandora's Box; full of something dangerous. She thought he would never tell her, except for that one night in Baker Street.

One night, they had been alone in the Baker Street flat. Molly had just had a bath and Sherlock was playing the violin in his chair.  
>"Are you ever going to tell me what's in the box, Sherlock?" Molly asked, drying her hair off and sitting in the chair opposite him in her bathrobe. Sherlock stopped playing the violin and laughed slightly.<br>"You don't need to know. You simply won't need to open it." Molly eyed the box on the coffee table and then picked it up. Sherlock looked at her, alarmed by what she was about to do.  
>"I'm going to do it…" Molly bluffed with a facetious smile and began to wedge the lid off.<br>"Molly," Sherlock's voice was cautious and Molly looked up at him, raising an eyebrow.  
>"Come on; tell me." She smiled laughing.<br>"A spring," Sherlock confessed, "Put the lid back on. Please." Molly put the lid back on and set it on the table. "Thank you," he smiled, relieved as she pulled her chair closer to him.  
>"What are we going to call her?" She smiled at him.<br>"It's still a…"  
>"Shhhh; no science. We agreed; just for tonight. What should we call our daughter, Sherlock?"<br>"Snow white," Sherlock murmured bitterly. Molly simply laughed at his remark.  
>"With you as her dad? No, she'd be more of a Rose-Red. We could call her Rose?"<br>"That's ridiculous," Sherlock couldn't resist.  
>"Well, if you're so anti, we should call her…" Sherlock got up from his chair and put his hands on the arms of the chair Molly was curled on. Looking directly into her eyes, he smiled and raised an eyebrow. "…Abigail," she finished, flustered by his proximity. He simply kissed her.<br>"I like that one."

Before Molly had control over what she was doing, tears were streaming down her face. Taking the box and putting it in her handbag, she began to walk out of the eerily empty Baker Street flat and go with John to see Mary. The Watsons were all she had, well, the Watsons and Lestrade.

Right now, she couldn't linger for another second. Anger began to boil up in her. How dare Sherlock use? He was supposed to help her with Abigail. He was supposed to protect her from harm, protect Molly from…  
>"John, stop the car." Molly's voice sounded cold to her own ears. "I said stop the car." John pulled over and Molly got out, storming into the misty drizzle that pervaded the London streets. Walking back to Baker Street, angry with Sherlock that he could do such a cowardly thing, Molly had her fists clenched.<br>"Molly," John called, chasing after her, "Where are you going?"  
>"Baker Street. I have a bone to pick with…" She didn't finish her thought as she continued, not letting anything stand in her way. With her handbag heavy on her shoulder, she continued back to the flat, with John limping after her. Molly dared not look behind her. John would try and make her come back, be it with an empathetic expression or even some words of humility but Molly's mind was set.<br>"Molly," he called, "Whatever you're going to do, it's not the answer." Molly ignored him and continued in the bitter cold towards the place she had driven away from only moments ago.  
>"It is the answer, John," Molly murmured as she stormed up the stairs.<p> 


	39. Chapter 39

Molly got up the stairs to see Lestrade, looking solemnly at where Sherlock had been sitting.

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly called gently and went into John's old bedroom after following the snivelling. "I need to ask you something." Molly sat down beside her on the edge of the perfectly made bed.

"Yes, Molly, dear?" Molly was still angry but the crying old woman made it harder to assert her anger. Instead of bombarding her with the disgruntled chastisements she had initially set out to, her voice softened and her eyes widened with complete and utter empathy.

"Did you ever just check on him?" Mrs. Hudson looked up and into Molly's eyes for a moment but they didn't linger long.

"I... I did but he would always tell me to leave... I didn't..." Mrs. Hudson began to cry again and Molly ended up rubbing her back comfortingly. What was Molly thinking? She couldn't pin this on delicate Mrs. Hudson.

"How long do you think...?" Mrs. Hudson simply cried more and Molly encased her in a hug, angry at Sherlock. How could he abuse his beautiful mind? How could he take it away from the world so foolishly? For a genius, he was so stupid and reckless. Molly set her handbag onto the bed and slowly edged out her ivory box.

"What's that?" Mrs. Hudson asked with her voice still trembling.

"It's something Sherlock gave to me. He told me to protect it until the end." She handed it to Mrs. Hudson, "Don't open it." She added quickly. "Abby used to love the story behind it." As Molly ran through it in eloquent discourse, Mrs. Hudson began to smile. Molly took it back and traced it absently, the anger she felt at Sherlock slowly diffusing into admiration and, more specifically, sadness and grief.

She found herself wondering. What if she did open it? Would the spring fly forwards and hit her in the eye? As she traced the box, every nook and cranny, she felt a piece of parchment in one of the patterns. Mrs. Hudson left the room for a moment to assist comfort Lestrade. Molly looked down at it, wondering. How long had this been here? She simply traced the paper lightly with her fingers before she turned it around and there, in Sherlock's handwriting, with his favourite black fountain pen, was her name; Molly Holmes.

She began to read it.

_My dear Molly,_

_I have spent a lot of time thinking about how I want to phrase this but everything I want to say I am unable to express in words. One of the first things I would like to say, though, is thank you._

_Thank you for your unhindering loyalty and unwavering patience. You never doubted my warped opinions on things and never let me near the one thing that I have probably succumbed to._

_Thank you for bringing my daughter into this world. She grew up to be beautiful, self-effacing and so infinitely loyal just like her mother. Abigail also reminded me too much of myself; of how I used to be before I switched off my emotions. She would smile at people and she would bounce around with enthusiasm despite all of the darkness in the world and it terrified me that somebody so young, so innocent, could be taken from the surface of the earth so mercilessly and at my expense. That is not something I could take lightly._

_I know it was my philosophy not to care but I cared. Oh, did I care. It wrapped me up in such uncontrollable darkness, accelerating abnormally fast and consuming my mind within seconds and I had to slow it somehow; I had to block it out. I know this does not justify anything._

_But you may take comfort in the fact that you, Molly Holmes, achieved something thought many thought - myself included - was impossible. You taught me, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, how to love and for that, I am eternally grateful._

_From the bottom of my heart, I love you, Molly Holmes._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_SHERLOCK HOLMES._

Before Molly could saturate the paper with her tears, she threw it to the side hastily, not wanting to look at it and be reminded that she was alone. Her daughter was gone and her husband was gone. It suited Sherlock just fine to overdose but what about her? Did he stop to think that Molly blamed herself too when she woke in the night from nightmares of her daughter, cold and blue on a slab, with a tag on her toe? What about the dreams that warped into nightmares? She would be in the garden with Abigail but then, as they stood up to walk home, Abigail would dissolve slowly before Molly could take her hand and no matter where she looked, Abigail would be nowhere in her view. How could Sherlock leave her alone with that? How would she cope with the both of them dissolving from the garden? Her breathing felt constricted as she let the tears slide freely down her face. She would give anything just to see her daughter's face one more time or to tell Sherlock that it wasn't his fault and she would spend a lifetime with that weight on her shoulders. That was what chewed her up inside like cyanide coursing through her bloodstream.

The box felt heavy in her hands and she stared at it, toying with the possibility. Her fingers moved to the edge of the lid and she closed her eyes. Sliding it off slowly, she did not look at it until the lid was off, there sat a spring, one with two sharp edges. She picked the spring up and eyed it carefully, examining it and its potential.

She pricked her finger on one of the points and set it back down, placing the lid back on with a wave of disorientation washing over her.


	40. Chapter 40

_Epilogue_

_And so, it was, as the young and beautiful Molly Holmes had passed from the fever that took her, that the musty Baker Street flat was empty. With wilting roses on the windowsill, no sun shone through the cracks in the curtains and the wraiths of the three Holmes' remained, solemnly dampening the atmosphere. Such a tragedy it was that three brilliant minds had expired before their time but alas, now they were set free._

_The Watsons remained and although these wounds were deep and damaging, time would be the best remedy and each year, they would go to visit the graves of their fallen friends with a bouquet of lilacs, remembering when everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. It was this way that the Holmes family would be remembered – for the good times and even for the times of trial that changed both families in so many ways. A dreadful shame that, at the hands of one man, the beauty of this friendship had been torn apart, obliterated into one thousand shards of glass. The world was a cruel place where mercy was but a veil to disguise the true atrocities that made it up; the people who played god, the people who ended other people's novels before they had a chance to even glance at their final chapter. They would never know what their final words could have been nor would they know the last poetic sentence at the end. It was this fact that made their deaths so unfortunate and much too premature._

_One bitterly cold morning, as the winds howled down Baker Street, a black car swiftly pulled to a halt outside the derelict, unoccupied flat and a dark-haired man, with beautifully polished black leather shoes stepped out of it._

_It had been a long time since anybody had come across the old flat and it would be a foolish and romantic notion to imply that the cause of this man's visit was grief as the Holmes' were not so avidly adored. Instead, he opened the door and began to walk up the creaky, wooden stairs._

_The flat looked foreign without a single living soul residing there but this did not faze the mysterious man, for he was silent but not in the way a holy man would be; quite the opposite in fact. Like a hostile spider, he walked slowly along the floor until he came across a room with an ivory box, with a spring beside it, pointed at both ends. Smiling to himself, he continued pacing until he came across an instrument; a dark violin, sitting on a worn down armchair, accumulating an eloquent amount of dust._

_His smile widened as he picked it up and on the way out, you could hear a familiar song, like something from a fairy-tale, and a wolf-like laugh echoing through the hollow hall that would remain empty forever._


End file.
